


Don't Ever Look Back

by fabfemmeboy



Series: Sincere Baked Goods [7]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-15 19:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13037790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabfemmeboy/pseuds/fabfemmeboy
Summary: With the slushie wars winding down and Kurt realizing just where he stands at McKinley, he starts to wonder if he might really belong somewhere else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first two stories in this series were firmly within canon, the third worked okay, then it diverged a little. Now it's started to diverge a lot, if only because of when Kurt leaves in relationship to when Puck comes back. So while there will be some relationship between this series and the actual series from now on (including here), it won't be tied too closely.

Kurt wasn't sure when making out with Puck had become such a routine part of his afternoon that he started to get vaguely turned-on just by looking at the clock and seeing it was almost 5.    
  
Some days, if he was lucky, there was neither glee nor football and they could be at Puck's by 2:50.  Glee let out at 4 and they had a tendency to linger in the parking lot while Kurt ended up pressed between the hood of his car and Puck's hips.  But, more often than not, he had to wait for the text somewhere between 5:15 and 5:30 that signaled Puck was home after football.  
  
There were some exceptions, of course, and when Puck's mom was working the night shift he usually couldn't go over there until almost 8.  Occasionally the text wouldn't come or would say something cryptic like "busy", which Kurt knew meant someone else was over there - anyone but Santana was fair game.  She was still protesting the relationship and appeared to be the only one suffering the consequences of the strike.  
  
He tried not to let it bother him.  After all, this was the deal, and he knew full well that Puck wasn't a guy he could tie down.  Besides, he supposed Puck had a right to miss...y'know...girlparts.  Even though that thought made him kind of queasy.  
  
Not because he was jealous or anything.  Just because picturing naked girls - with or without Puck naked with them - was decidedly not something he enjoyed.  
  
At almost exactly the stroke of 5:30, just when Kurt was starting to wonder which cougar his guy was bedding today, he heard the doorbell ring.  The sound made him jump, and he pocketed his phone on the way upstairs - in case Puck texted him when he was investigating who was bothering to show up without calling or something first.  Looking through the window in the door, he saw a tuft of black hair and hastily unfastened the lock.  "You didn't text or anything," he stated, confused.  
  
"My sister's got like four friends over.  I lasted about ten minutes - it felt like three hours," Puck replied.  
  
"Yeah, but usually-"  
  
"You gonna really tell me to go away because I didn't RSVP?" Puck snorted.  
  
"Get in here."  Puck smirked at his victory.    
  
"Your dad around?"  
  
"It's only 5:30," Kurt replied, as if that was an answer in and of itself.  Puck shrugged.  
  
He wasn't sure why it was awkward being at his house.  Normally by this point at Puck's, someone's shirt would be off...or hands would be way too busy to properly unbutton a variety of garments, really.  In either event, the part where they were kind of standing around in the front hall with Puck still in his jacket was just strange.  
  
It occurred to Kurt that Puck had never actually been to his room before - he'd seen the kitchen during dinner last Friday (which would never be mentioned again if either of them had their way) and had been more than a casual observer in the living room, but the part of the house Kurt considered his sanctuary was still..."unchristened" was the only word that popped to mind and he blushed at the thought.    
  
He led Puck silently down the stairs.  "Hm," Puck nodded as he shrugged off his coat.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"It's...white."  
  
"Dior Grey," Kurt corrected.  
  
"Very white."  
  
"I guess."  
  
"How do you not stain shit?"  
  
Kurt had seen the assortment of stains on Puck's carpet, like a Rorschach test of his childhood - nacho cheese stain by the desk, blood stain near the window from the time he'd been an idiot and decided to try to open it with his feet because he was too lazy to go over there and ended up kicking through the pane instead, the model airplane paint over by the dresser (and no, Kurt couldn't believe Puck had ever made a model airplane, either; he assumed that had been Finn's influence or something).  He supposed that, to Puck, the austerity might be daunting.  
  
And made a mental note not to let Puck eat down here.  Or paint.  Or kick open windows.  Blood was very hard to get out of winter-white wool.  
  
"Careful I guess," Kurt replied, but Puck corrected it to 'prissy' in his head.  He wasn't sure when that had stopped bothering him, the uptight thing; maybe once he saw the non-prissy part of Kurt and got that the uptight, repressed thing was kind of his version of the badass glare.  And even if the badass glare - and guns - were way more useful than pretending you were so much better than a person you couldn't even hear them, Puck guessed it worked.  
  
After a few more seconds of awkward silence, Puck finally asked, "Are those even  _chairs_?"  The swinging cage thing, the one like a bongo drum with big slats...the only one he could even figure out where to sit on was the low one that looked like something he'd seen on MTV Cribs once.  
  
Kurt smiled faintly - he didn't know why he found the kind of clueless 'too much of a boy for my own good' thing charming, but he kind of always had - and led Puck over to the couch.  "Think you can handle this?" he teased.  
  
Puck snorted and gave him a playful shove onto the couch.  Kurt winced and Puck stiffened.  "Y'okay?" he asked.  He didn't think he'd shoved him hard or whatever, and the couch looked soft - he wouldn't actually know.  Maybe it was a reflex thing.  Considering how long he'd knocked Kurt around, and how long it had taken before Kurt trusted he wasn't going to start again or something-  
  
"Yeah.  There's a support beam," Kurt replied and reached out to grasp Puck's hand and pull him down onto the couch on top of him.  Never one to turn down a makeout session, Puck went with it. He tried to roll them, but on the narrow couch it meant Kurt was kind of jammed against the upholstery of the back for a few seconds before Puck managed to dislodge them and settle onto his back. Kurt draped himself almost lazily against Puck's broad chest, one hand coming to rest on Puck's bicep, as their lips reconnected.    
  
Kurt moaned softly as Puck's hand moved to cup his left buttcheek, and Puck smirked into the kiss - that move was money in the bank.  Especially because it meant Kurt shifted, which meant frot, which always felt good.  But there were other things that felt better.  His hand moved up to Kurt's waistband as he tried to untuck his shirt.  One of these days, he decided, they were going to have to make a rule - either Kurt undressed himself before anything started, or he had to stop wearing such stupid crap.  How the fuck was he supposed to undo whatever those non-button tuxedo things on his shirt were?  And vests and sweaters and all that-  why couldn't the dude find something fabulous  or whatever that only involved one freaking layer?  
  
As Puck tried to free his shirt, Kurt reached down to move his hand away.  "I have other plans," he stated with a sly smile.  It piqued Puck's interest - among other things - for which Kurt was grateful.  The locker slam between eighth and ninth period had been at a particularly bad angle, and while he hadn't gotten a good chance to look at it yet he was reasonably certain it was bruising.  Nothing like an injury and the ensuing questions to kill the mood.  The last thing he wanted to do was talk about it, and even though Puck was normally good about not asking too many questions, there was always the chance that he picked  _now_  to act like a gentleman.  
  
As he'd said - he had other plans for the evening.  
  
Kurt raised Puck's shirt, fingertips grazing the sculpted abs with a smirk, then lowered his mouth to Puck's chest.  He wriggled his tongue along the nipple ring-  
  
Puck looked down annoyedly when Kurt pulled his mouth away.  When he saw the smaller guy laughing, his eyes narrowed further.  " _What_?"  
  
"Is there a reason you taste like a popsicle?"  
  
Puck groaned.  "Blue raspberry today."  He shook his head and pulled his tshirt over his head to reveal his chest streaked with faint blue stains.  
  
"Oh my god."  
  
"After two freaking showers, too!  It wouldn't have been so bad, but Sam kept making Avatar jokes in that made-up language dorks speak."    
  
The first week of the slushie war, Kurt apologized every time - and there were at least two a day that week, mostly more like three or four.  And each time, Puck would look at him, quirk an eyebrow, and keep walking at his side.  Now, as the second week drew to a close, the war had become more of a low-grade conflict.  A mid-morning ice-slap from one of the usual suspects, the occasional snicker, but the novelty was quickly wearing off.  
  
At least for Puck.  
  
Kurt stood and took Puck's hand, leading him into the bathroom. He opened a linen closet to reveal two packed shelves of product - though admittedly not his usual regimen, which lived on his vanity in the bedroom - and after considering a few options handed Puck a still-wrapped fancy soap.  Puck gave him a 'dude, seriously?' look and sniffed it.  Lemony.  He guessed he could live with that.  It was kind of like washing with lemon Pledge or something.  At least it wasn't a flower or anything.  
  
"Wash with this.  I'll be out there."  
  
"You're not even gonna help?" Puck asked as he unbuttoned his jeans.  
  
Kurt smiled faintly.  "I do that and you'll just need another shower to clean up from that one," he replied.  He leaned in for a quick kiss, but Puck caught his arm and pulled him closer.  When Puck reached down to unclasp Kurt's pants, Kurt pushed away in a not-very-serious protest.  "I'll be waiting."  
  
"Then I'll just have to shower again," Puck pointed out, but Kurt walked out into the bedroom.  After a moment to calm himself, he ascended the stairs to grab a bottle of water.  
  
"Hey, kid."  
  
Kurt jumped.  "Dad.  You're home early."  
  
"Quiet day, let Cliff close up."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Figured it'd get you off my back about working too hard."  
  
"For today at least," Kurt replied.  
  
"I thought Puck was here."  
  
"He is - he's showering."  When Burt looked at him curiously, though everything about his expression screamed 'Do I really want to know?', Kurt explained, "Unfortunate slushie incident."  
  
"Thought you said it was calming down."  
  
"Mostly," Kurt replied honestly.  "People have moved on from wild speculation about our relationship to speculation about which of the brain trusts on the volleyball team have been running a decongestant ring, so-."  
  
"Hm."  Burt nodded.  "That why your side's all banged up?"  
  
Kurt froze and did his best to recover quickly.  "What do you mean?" he asked.  His shirt was still firmly tucked-in and covered by his vest anyway.  Neither he nor Puck had noticed any bruising on his hand or lower arm, how did his dad-  
  
"You're walking like someone slammed you around."  
  
"Oh," Kurt replied tightly, his face yielding nothing.  
  
"What's going on?"  
  
"Nothing, Dad.  It happens."  
  
"How often?" Burt asked.  
  
"Sometimes.  It's not a big deal.  It doesn't really hurt," he lied.  It did hurt - just not as badly as the last one so it didn't bother him. Much.  
  
"Do I need to go down there and talk to-"  
  
"We both know Figgins won't do anything," Kurt replied matter-of-factly.  "I'm fine, Dad, really."  
  
"You sure?" Burt asked, his deep concern more than obvious.  
  
The last thing his father needed was more stress, Kurt knew.  Things were finally starting to get back to normal, only better because now he had daily sessions with Puck; he wasn't about to let all of that disappear and end up back where he started two months earlier.  So he forced his most genuine look and replied, "I'm sure."  
  
Burt didn't look like he really bought Kurt's assertions, but he let the issue drop.  "Get back downstairs, just keep it down, got it?"  
  
"Got it," Kurt replied awkwardly and retreated downstairs with his bottle of water.  
  
* * * * *   
  
She saw it coming all the way down the hallway.  
  
Kurt stood at his locker, carefully readjusting his hair before he pulled out the books he would need for his next class.  She saw Jefferson, a burly football player, and a buddy of his from the wrestling team - Ellinger, she thought, he sat in the back of her English class and made the rest of the underachievers sound bright by comparison - stalking down the hall, cheating closer and closer to the wall.  They were approaching from the door side so he wouldn't see them until it was too late.  
  
Racing as quickly as she could without her penny loafers slipping on the linoleum, she arrived in the nick of time.  "Kurt," she said with a bright smile, making sure to stand between him and the goon squad.  "I wanted to talk to you about an assignment for glee club."  The guys stopped, seemed to be waiting to see if she would leave so they could resume whatever nefarious plan they had in mind, then wandered off.  They looked dejected, and she could only hope that their low combined IQs and poor dedication levels meant they wouldn't be returning anytime soon.  
  
"Just so you know, don't try that with Azimio or Karofsky," Kurt stated nonchalantly - or as nonchalantly as he could when in full-on ice queen mode.  "They'll hit a girl.  They shoved Tina last year."  
  
"I heard you stepped in."  
  
"Some good it did," he replied cryptically.  After a moment, he added, "Thank you, though."  It was begrudging, but not as reluctant as it would have been a few months ago.  
  
"How are you and Puck?" she asked brightly.  
  
"Fine.  And you and...him?" he asked, not even deigning to speak Finn's name aloud or refer to him by any relationship that might imply closeness between the two of them.  
  
"Less than fine," she replied candidly.  Kurt gave a short nod - a year ago, he would have rejoiced, silently of course.  Now he couldn't entirely blame her.  "How long has he been like that?"  
  
"Long enough," he stated.  She looked crushed; at first he thought it was because she had just realized how horribly imperfect Finn - gorgeous goldenboy Finn - really was.  He remembered how much that moment had stung.  But when he closed his locker and she kind of followed him, he got the impression the dejected expression had more to do with wanting to talk about it and feeling cheated that he didn't.  Kurt sighed quietly and offered, "He exploded last spring when he and Carole moved in for all of four days, then it let up, then it bubbled up during the duets competition."  
  
"You wanted to sing with Sam and he..."  
  
"Said I was poisonous to poor Sam's reputation.  Yes," Kurt replied shortly, his tone bitterly clipped.  
  
"So when Puck came back and wanted to sing with you...that's why they fought, wasn't it? Both times."  Kurt didn't have to confirm - she could read the closed-of look well enough to know she was right.  "I just don't understand it.  He's met my dads and was perfectly nice.  Kind of anxious but I thought it was because I'm their only daughter and they're very protective of me."  Kurt looked at her with an expression that clearly said 'what do you want me to say?' and she started to speak again but was distracted by the tableau unfolding in front of her.  
  
Six people - four guys, two girls - walked by in a cluster.  They were wearing blue surgical gloves and masks, staring at Kurt and giggling like they were in on some great joke.  A couple of the guys made little x's with their latex-clad index fingers and held them in Kurt's direction.  Rachel's head snapped to look at Kurt, who was doing his very best to look like he didn't care...but she knew he did.  His jaw was just a little too tight, his eyes narrowed just a little too much.  "What was that?" she asked quietly.  
  
"Nothing unusual."  
  
"Where'd they get the gloves and masks?"  
  
"Biology class.  Fetal pig dissections this week."  The hallways had smelled like formaldehyde all week.  
  
"I see that's still going on despite my numerous complaints to the school board.  It's barbaric, slaughtering so many defenseless pigs for no other reason than to be tortured by a bunch of high school students who have no intention of ever using the information, it's not even like it's a pre-med program or something.  And it's patently offensive."  When Kurt raised an eyebrow, she quickly explained, "Jews are strictly prohibited from touching the skin of a dead pig.  It's in Leviticus."  
  
"Isn't that also where your fathers' relationship is condemned as an abomination?" Kurt recited dryly.  
  
"If a person wants to take an extremely narrow view of things," Rachel replied defensively.  "Maybe.  No- not at all.  Sort of.  But suppose there were an Orthodox Jew here.  Or a Muslim student.  Requiring them to act in such a way as to violate the tenants of their faith - it was used during the Inquisition, you know.  To root out Spanish Jews and Muslims who had converted to Catholicism to escape death but refused to give up the belief system that was at the very center of their being."  
  
Kurt just kind of raised his eyebrows witheringly.  And people wondered why he thought religion was more of an evil than an asset.    
  
"Noah didn't object to it?" she asked, looking almost hurt.  
  
"Puck eats bacon cheeseburgers, I don't think he cares," Kurt replied.  
  
"Oh."  She looked disappointed.    
  
Kurt wondered if he was meant to start calling Puck 'Noah' now.  He knew Puck had offered that Burt could call him that, though Kurt suspected it was just Puck trying to be on his best behaviour for his benefit.  And Rachel called him that...but Quinn didn't, and neither did Finn or anyone else who knew him really well.  Except his family, of course, but since the nickname was derived from their family name it made sense - even if he had started referring to Sarah as "Little Puck," which made both Puckermans roll their eyes.  
  
"Why are they still wearing the masks? I would feel like I couldn't breathe."  
  
"So they don't catch anything."  Kurt's tone was matter-of-fact with an undertone of sarcasm.  
  
"Catch-...what, exactly?" Rachel asked.  "Is it an HIV reference? Because even though, statistically speaking, heterosexual teenage girls are more likely to contract it - not me, since I haven't...and Finn hasn't - not with each other or with anyone else-"  Kurt refrained from telling her about the Santana incident he only knew about because of a failed attempt at brotherly bonding the previous year "-it wouldn't surprise me if the students around here had outdated information-"  
  
"It's not an HIV reference," Kurt cut her off.  Even when she was trying to be nice or supportive, she still kind of made him want to tie her up and gag her to make her shut up.  He supposed that was mean, but he couldn't help it.  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"Apparently homosexuality is the teenage equivalent of cooties," he stated with a roll of his eyes.  
  
She blinked.  "That doesn't even make any sense!  They think they can get it through- through what? Touching you?"  
  
"Not much chance of that."  Even without gloves, he couldn't remember the last time a guy - other than guys in glee club if they had to - had touched him in anything other than anger or an attempt to hurt him.  Shoving him into lockers, hoisting him into a dumpster, that kind of thing.  An awkward fist-bump from Artie last May had been so shocking he'd hardly known what to do with it.  It wasn't as though he was a particularly touchy person even around people he liked, but it made him feel radioactive when people would go out of their way to avoid touching him - or, in the case of the football team for awhile, anything he'd touched.    
  
The masks were new and a little bit overkill.  On the other hand, it did make a statement and he could respect that more than some of the other bullying tactics.  
  
"Why would they believe something so ridiculous?"  Her sincerity unnerved him.  She had two gay dads, she had grown up knowing about homophobia for easily as long as he had - she must have.  How could she still be surprised by any of it?  How could it not be as obvious to her as it was to him?  It wasn't even as though she had been protected and unbullied all these years; until sometime in the middle of sophomore year, she had been almost as big a target as he was, though in different ways.  Girls and guys bullied differently to be sure, and the only real overlap seemed to be in the realm of slushies.  But she couldn't possibly be this naive, right?  She couldn't honestly believe that these neanderthals were capable of logic when it came to gay people...could she?  
  
"Because I 'took' their poster child," Kurt replied matter-of-factly, and judging from the look on her face she really  _was_  that naive.  "I converted the pinnacle of macho heterosexuality maleness at McKinley.  That means no one's safe."    
  
"If wishing hard enough could make a person gay, you would have snatched Finn long before I ever got a chance," she pointed out.  She was going for funny, but neither of them found it particularly amusing in light of current circumstances.  "It doesn't work like that, how do they not know that?"  
  
He wasn't sure how, in the midst of his being Typhoid Mary, he felt like he should be comforting  _her_.  Maybe because she looked so genuinely shaken by it, where he'd lost his faith in humanity years ago.  Maybe because she looked so genuinely concerned for him, for his well-being...he wasn't sure what to do with that.  He was used to warring with her, despite the fact that they had a lot more in common than he would ever admit to anyone.  But the way she looked like she wanted to try to protect him even though she had no idea what he actually went through?  
  
It was sweet.  He had to give her that much.  Reluctantly.   
  
"It's really not that different than everything else," he said, his tone softening just a little.  "Nothing I can't handle."  
  
"You're sure?  Because a lot of those guys are pretty big and you're-"  
  
"Yes," Kurt stated with more confidence than he felt.  "They'll move on eventually."  He started to peel off to enter his next class, but hesitated and turned back.  "Don't tell Puck, okay?" he asked, the mask slipping just enough for her to see how worried he was.  "He'll start kicking ass and get sent back to juvie.  I'm fine."  
  
"Okay," she replied solemnly and, though secrecy was not her strong suit, she vowed to herself that she would do the very best she could not to let it slip.  Kurt needed all the friends he could get right now, and in her quest to be a better person - even though now she was decidedly a better person than Finn, who had been her inspiration behind her campaign of self-betterment - she knew that being a good friend to people in need was key.    
  
* * * * *  
  
Of all the places Puck wanted to be at 6:30 in the morning, sitting in the Spanish classroom wasn't even close to being on the list.  Looking around, he wasn't the only one who was less than thrilled to be there.  Artie's eyes were half-closed behind his thick glasses, Finn was falling asleep with his cheek in his hand, and Mike was holding onto his coffee like it was a lifeline - or like he was trying to figure out how to get it into an IV.  Only Sam looked even remotely awake.  
  
Well...and then there was Kurt.  
  
Standing at the front of the room with boards on easels.  One had red chiffon and puffy hairdos and dinner jackets in a weird blue satin.  The other had sequins and feathers and-...okay, Puck swore he was dreaming because that was a drawing of Kurt with a giant headdress of peacock feathers.  He knew Kurt was gay and all - what was it the guy preferred to be called? "Theatrical"? Yeah, fuck that - this was just  _Gay_.  As in, Liberace called, he thinks you're overdoing it.  
  
He knew he was supposed to be supportive or whatever, but he had his limits.  And anything with feathers was definitely over that line.  
  
"Can we get started?" Artie asked.  "I think we're about to lose a couple."    
  
"Good idea," Kurt replied as he rapped his pointer - yes, he had a pointer stick, like the world's most obnoxious substitute teacher drunk with power - against the board.  "Cher."  
  
"No," Finn replied flatly without looking.  
  
"Don't start."  
  
"I'm not starting anything, dude, I'm saying we're not doing  _Cher_."  
  
"Anyone other than Finn?" Kurt asked, glaring sideways at him.  
  
"No Cher," Artie stated.  
  
"I have a question," Mike offered.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why are we here so early?"  
  
"Well, because all of you have football after school, this was the only time we could meet."  
  
"Why not just meet after practice? Go grab some pizza or something."  That seemed to have consensus...except for Kurt, of course.    
  
"We're here now, can we just get through this please?" Kurt asked tightly.  He didn't want to be doing this.  He  _wanted_  to just be allowed on the girls team.  They would listen to his ideas.  They would see value in him.  And most importantly, their team didn't include the guy who had started two fights over him because he was just that dangerous.  
  
He liked Sam fine, and Artie and Mike were good guys, and obviously he liked Puck - more than liked, but saying it like that made it sound like they were getting close to another word that wasn't 'lesbian' and they were nowhere near there yet.  But when it came to creative decisions...even Puck was eyeing his concept boards suspiciously.  Even Sam, who Kurt knew without a doubt stood behind the relationship, was less than thrilled with having to sing a girl song.  
  
Just once he wanted to not get that look from a room full of people.  For once in his life, he wanted to not be stared at like he was out of his mind for suggesting something perfectly reasonable and well within the requirements of the assignment.  
  
"I've taken the liberty of preparing an arrangement," Kurt said as he passed out the stapled sheet music packets.  It was the most musically stimulated he'd been in months, creating the mashup.  Maybe he could start a series of them, do a bunch of them on YouTube or something - maybe with Rachel, now that she was being oddly nice to him.  At least then he would have something to do.  
  
"What the hell is this song?" Puck asked, staring at it.   
  
"'Free your Mind' by En Vogue."  Kurt tried not to sound disappointed that even Puck thought his ideas were ridiculous.  
  
"I'm singing about wearing high heels and being a hooker?" Artie asked skeptically.  "Kurt, I don't know about this.  Maybe we should do something, y'know, simpler.  A little more neutral."  
  
Before Kurt could open his mouth, Finn piped up, "He doesn't do neutral."  
  
Now Puck was on his side again, apparently, or at least he was against Finn, because he demanded, "What the hell, man?"  
  
"Look, dude, I get that you're gay and got Puck on your team and whatever, but the rest of us  _aren't_.  We don't wanna do Gaga or Brittany or Madonna or Cher or whatever other stupid diva you're thinking of.  We wanna do a dude song, and if we've gotta pick a girl can't we at least go with, like, Pink or someone who's kinda badass?" Finn asked.  
  
If the same comment had come from Sam, Kurt would have been annoyed and tense but not nearly to this degree.  "Sure," he practically spat, almost quivering with tension.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Pick what you want.  I'll show up and sway in the background and sing whatever the highest part is - don't worry, I won't 'gay up'  _your_  performance."  He gathered his boards and fabric samples and strode out of the classroom towards his locker.    
  
He didn't see who it was who shoved him into the wall.  By the time he looked up, whoever it was had disappeared around the corner...and unlike a month ago, he didn't just have one or two tormentors anymore.  Right now, almost anyone was a good guess.  
  
Looking at the swatchboards he'd spent most of the previous evening working on scattered down the empty hallway, he came to a conclusion he felt Puck would approve of:  
  
Fuck this.  
  
He pulled himself up slowly and grabbed his bag, walking out of the school.  It was early enough that no one would realize he'd left.  The question then became precisely what to do with himself during the day - sitting around the basement and watching Bravo would only entertain him for so long.  It wasn't even Wednesday, when there was a chance of a Project Runway marathon.    
  
Since hearing about the new competition brackets for Sectionals, he'd been intrigued by this Dalton Academy place.  While he supposed he shouldn't have expected anything less than a series of gay jokes at the revelation that it was an all-boys school, he had to admit he wondered...not if they really were all gay, but what that would even be like.  After all, Sam had gone to an all-boys school before he moved and he was the closest to an accepting guy Kurt had met.  
  
And really, they  _did_  need recon to know what this group was like.  What they could do.  After all, they all knew Vocal Adrenaline's strengths and weaknesses, and they'd watched Jane Adams and Haverford before the competition, but no one had heard of either of these schools.  While he couldn't blend in with the Hipsters - not even in his Riff Raff baldcap and makeup - he could probably infiltrate these choirboys.  
  
When he got to his car, he pulled out his phone and googled the school.  The website revealed his first snag - it was a uniform school.  But, at least on his little screen, it looked like he had pieces that could work.  Red tie, white shirt, hideous grey-ish pants...the jacket would be the biggest problem, but it  _was_  November in Ohio so an overcoat would hardly raise eyebrows, right?  
  
Drawing in a deep breath, he started his engine and drove towards home.  He had clothes to grab before his mission could really begin.


	2. Chapter 2

When he didn't see Kurt again after he flounced out of the early morning meeting, Puck started to get...not  _worried_ , he wasn't a Jewish mother, and  _concerned_  was what Rachel said when she was trying to avoid saying she was worried because people would say she sounded like one But with all the assholes at school and the fact that Kurt was kind of freakishly reliable and actually showed up to class and all that crap, he thought he should at least try to make sure Kurt was okay.  
  
 _Where r u?_  he texted during lunch.   
  
The response came almost two hours later - two freaking hours!  _I'm fine, don't worry. I just needed to get away for awhile. I'll see you tonight._  
  
He didn't know what the hell that meant. But by then he was in geometry and his brain already hurt and he didn't have the concentration to try to figure out where the hell that meant Kurt had gone.  
  
He was probably just at home doing...whatever the really gay equivalent of playing video games all day was. Organizing his closet. Or maybe the mall or something. That sounded like something Kurt might do if he was pissed.  
  
Puck ditched last period and drove to Kurt's house. When he saw the SUV in its usual space, he decided that was either a good sign or a horrible one. Either Kurt had spent the day chilling and watching something stupid on tv while he ate some gross organic thing instead of real snacks...or someone had kicked his ass and he spent the day curled up with ice packs on the couch downstairs. The fact that the front door was unlocked he took as a strange sign more than one that was strictly good or bad. Didn't Kurt usually lock it? He'd only been over once, and he thought Kurt locked the door behind them, but he didn't really remember. He'd kind of been paying attention to Kurt's ass instead.  
  
It only took him two tries to find the basement door - the first door he tried was the closet with the vacuum - and he heard Kurt singing as soon as he started down the steps. Something upbeat, too, which meant the guy probably wasn't mortally wounded or anything.  
  
"Let's go all the way tonight - no regrets, just love. We can dance until we die, you and I...we'll be young forever!"   
  
He had no idea what the song was, but it was almost certainly a girl song. For one thing, what guy talked about having sex and said shit like "no regrets, just love"? For another, Kurt almost always sang girl songs. And it was kind of the theme of the week.   
  
He descended the stairs slowly and was surprised at what he saw. Kurt, in tight black jeans and a simple long-sleeved henley, earbuds in, was dancing through the room as he sang. He looked even more spazzy like this than he did during glee club, which was saying quite a bit, but Puck was a little more focused on other things.  
  
"Imma get your heart racing in my skintight jeans, be your teenage dream tonight. Let you put your hands on me in my skintight jeans, be your teenage dream tonight - ooooooaaaa..."  
  
Whatever the hell this song was, Puck decided he liked it. When he got to the stair landing and Kurt still didn't notice him, Pnuck shrugged and descended the last few steps to wrap his arm around Kurt from behind.  
  
"You- make- me- feel like I'm livin' a teen- age- dr-" Kurt let out a startled screech as Puck grabbed him.  
  
"Good - you're alive," Puck smirked as Kurt hastily pulled out his earbuds. The tinny sound of whatever pop song it was kept playing as the white headphones dangled from his pocket. "Y'know, usually your skintight jeans are kind of a pain in the ass, but for this..."  
  
Kurt blushed, but that's when Puck noticed it - Kurt was smiling. Like, a lot. In a ridiculous six-year-old kind of way, only like he was a little embarrassed by it.   
  
Yeah, he'd seen Kurt smile before, but usually in either that dreamy way that made him feel kinda gross, or in his sarcastic "Right. Sure. Moron," kind of way. Sometimes, when it was just the two of them hanging out and talking between orgasms, Kurt would actually give a genuine smile that felt kind of like it was too private to ever be seen. But this? Full-on grinning like he was actually really happy? Puck didn't know what to do with that. It was like someone replaced the Ice Queen with... _Rachel_ , and while he'd made out with her and everything, he wasn't sure he could have dealt with actually dating her.  
  
"Where'd you go?" he asked.  
  
"Hm?" Kurt asked as he reached down to turn off his iPod.  
  
"When you stormed out this morning."  
  
The smile was gone, replaced by something Puck recognized a lot better - a glare. "Out."  
  
"What's your problem?"  
  
"You mean aside from you and everyone else in there looking like I was-" He struggled to find the best word for it. "-not just a freak, I'm used to that, but like I was trying to ruin every reputation, force you all into my deviant-"  
  
"Hey, that was Finn's deal, not-"  
  
"You didn't look thrilled at the idea, either," Kurt replied sharply.  
  
"Well, yeah. Dude, you had feathers up there. Sequins and shit. It was totally-"  
  
"Gay?" Kurt supplied.  
  
Okay, sure, that had been the word he was going for, but in the most literal sense of the word - not like an insult or whatever. "So where'd you go?" he asked again.  
  
"Dalton." Puck had never understood that thing people said about watching tension melt away. Even in a steam tub after a long practice, tension didn't  _melt_ , and usually when he saw it it just kind of contracted and relaxed a little at a time. But the way Kurt's face changed when he said the word - like it fixed everything he was pissed about or something - he thought maybe he kind of got the expression now. He didn't get why that word did it for Kurt, but whatever.  
  
"The school with the Anglers?"  
  
"Warblers," Kurt corrected.  
  
"Espionage. Cool." He flopped unceremoniously onto the couch, legs dangling over the tufted arm. "Whatcha think?"  
  
"I think they're going to be tough to beat."  
  
"Please. They're a bunch of prep school punks who don't even have a girl to sing the girl parts."  
  
The tension was back as Kurt fought the urge to point out that he sang the girl parts plenty of the time and kind of wished they would use him more instead of giving it to every other person with that range - namely Rachel, but it was shaping up like Quinn might get this year's solo. And Santana. Or maybe Brittany. Or anyone other than him. "They don't need girls. They're incredible." Puck didn't look impressed. "The reason we thought we'd be able to beat Vocal Adrenaline was because we had heart. Soul. The ability to feel something below the neck." Kurt asked. "They have it. They're cohesive, they support one another vocally, they have incredible arrangements - all a cappella."  
  
"Wait. They don't even use music?"  
  
"None. They might for competition, I don't know, but I get the feeling they're strictly vocals. They were like On The Rocks, only better."  
  
"Straight up?" Puck asked.  
  
"No - On The Rocks, it's a college a cappella group from Oregon, I think. They did an arrangement of Bad Romance last year that went viral. The Warblers could do it even better. Their lead guy - Blaine - has an incredible voice."  
  
"Then I guess we better step up," Puck replied. He was bored already, and from his position Kurt's ass was kind of in his face - in a good way. Everyone always freaked out about the competition, got all psyched out, then they won anyway. It wasn't worth this kind of effort, but he did have to admit that the way Kurt's voice went up a bit on the name 'Blaine' stirred something territorial in him. Not jealous; definitely not jealous. That shit was for punks like Finn who thought anything except one guy dating one girl was horrible. And Rachel even walking down the hall in something that didn't look like it was knit by his Nana was totally grounds to get all freaked out.   
  
He was a stud. He had permission to get any girl he wanted. He wasn't gonna get all Twilight over some dude with a stupid name in a lame uniform.  
  
He pulled Kurt onto the couch on top of him. "The school's amazing," Kurt declared.  
  
"Mmhmm" Puck said ambivalently as he leaned in to kiss his soft pinkish lips.  
  
"No bullying. None."  
  
"When you're all geeks, who's left to bully?" he asked.  
  
After a quick kiss, Kurt replied, "Still manage in glee club." He sounded - not bitter, really, more sad. Kinda wistful, but Puck wasn't sure why. He didn't think Kurt could still be that mad at him over the stupid feathers - or, if he was, they wouldn't be making out.  
  
Not that there was  _much_  making-out going on. Every time they kissed, Kurt would pop in with some new detail about the school, the guys, the song.  
  
"It looks like something out of Dead Poets' Society," Kurt said dreamily. Puck held Kurt's hip and rubbed up against him, and Kurt's eyes closed for a moment as he moaned. Good - back on track. "With this grand staircase and a hall that looked like it belonged in a Huntsberger mansion..." He didn't know what that meant but knew it wasn't the Playboy mansion so it probably didn't have to do with sex.   
  
Maybe if Kurt got it out of his system, they could continue properly. "That's the one with Robin Williams, right? And the character with a funny name - something Overstreet."  
  
"Knox," Kurt confirmed. "Plus the guy who's on House now playing, well, Puck. In the play in the movie."  
  
"Never got that joke before," Puck replied dryly. He practically forced his tongue down Kurt's throat and things heated up for a few minutes, the Kurt pulled back, eyes shining.  
  
"They touched me."  
  
Puck's eyebrows shot upwards. "Huh?"  
  
"Blaine. A couple of the guys. They weren't afraid of me." He was grinning like a freaking toddler or something, like a dude touching his shoulder was the best thing in the world, and totally paying no attention to the guy trying to grab his ass.   
  
Puck was not amused. He reached down to cup Kurt through his pants - almost nothing. Maybe if he would stop getting distracted that wouldn't be the case, Puck thought with a mental eyeroll. "Mmhmm?" he asked as he squeezed.  
  
"Yeah," Kurt murmured breathlessly. "And they sang a girl song without- without complaining about it being too-..."  
  
"Yeah?" Puck asked, nipping lightly at Kurt's earlobe. "I heard something about putting my hands on you in your skintight jeans."  
  
"And they danced to-" Kurt sat up suddenly, as if he had just realized what was going on. "...Oh. Oh jeez, I'm sorry," he said, eyeing Puck's tenting crotch, then his irritated face. "I wasn't thinking of-"  
  
"I noticed," Puck replied grimly. He expected that, now that Kurt  _did_  notice, and  _was_  thinking about it, they could get back down to business.  
  
Instead Kurt offered a small apologetic smile. "Sorry."  
  
Puck glanced down at Kurt's tight jeans which still weren't tight enough. Apparently not. "Y'know, for this? I could've just kept making out with Rachel," Puck snorted as he stood and headed in the direction of the shower he'd seen the other day. No way was he driving home this hard. On any other day he might have hope that Kurt would join him - what with the whole being naked and ripped and dripping wet and everything - but today? He'd get out of the shower and Kurt would still totally be sitting on the couch dreaming about architecture and uniforms.  
  
* * * * *  
Rachel dreamed of a day when she would leave Lima, with all its bucolic charm and plenty of fond anecdotes to write about in her memoirs, and live in a place not only with spectacular professional theater companies and talent that could stand up to her own, but with a restaurant that actually served vegetarian food on the menu.  
  
"You sure you don't want to go somewhere else?" Finn asked between bites of his hamburger as he watched her eye her fries suspiciously. She just knew it was the same oil that had been used to fry the chicken nuggets - the little hamburger shack on the way to the movies wasn't big enough to have separate fryers for meat and non-meat items, and it wasn't required by Ohio law; she had checked.   
  
"It's fine. Otherwise we'll be late," she replied.   
  
"What is this thing we're seeing?"  
  
"It's a special performance of Funny Girl," Rachel replied. "It's not officially advertised as a sing-along event, but the Western Ohio Barbra Streisand Appreciation Society web-boards have been buzzing with a number of devotees who plan to attend and make it more of an impromptu sing-along." Finn didn't have a response to that but took another large bite of his burger. At the realization that she would have just as much secondhand casual contact with meat products later when she kissed him, she decided that this must not be her line in the sand and began to eat her fries. "How's your mashup going?" she asked casually.   
  
"Don't ask."  
  
"You mean because you can't tell me, even though we're dating?"  
  
"I mean because it's sorta a long story."  
  
"Oh." She paused. "Don't you want to ask how ours is going?"  
  
"I figured you wouldn't tell me. You get kinda paranoid about stuff like this and really competitive."  
  
"Just because I can't tell you anything doesn't mean I don't want you to ask," Rachel stated like it made sense. Finn didn't see how, but that wasn't unusual. "Anyway. It's sort of a disaster. In the spirit of opposites and doing things unlike how we usually do them, I have taken a hands-off approach to the song choices and wardrobe, which means that the other five have to actually do something instead of sitting around and exchanging makeup tips."  
  
"Ours is the same old thing," Finn replied with a roll of his eyes.  
  
She had a bad feeling about that. "Meaning?" she ventured.  
  
"Kurt wants us all in peacock feathers and dinner jackets and crap. I think he said something about gowns." He sounded disgusted at even the suggestion, like even thinking of himself in the feathers and gown would turn him instantly into the newest cast member of La Cage Aux Folles.   
  
She had to say something. It was driving her too crazy not to. Since Friday by even speaking to Finn she felt like she was abandoning her dads and everything they as a family stood for. But she refused to believe he was honestly as hateful as he'd seemed at dinner. After all, she knew him really well and he was a good person - a very good person. Maybe he just honestly didn't realize how what he was saying was coming across.   
  
"Why do you talk about him like that?" she asked.  
  
"Like what?" he asked defensively.  
  
"Like he's threatening to you."  
  
"He kinda is."  
  
"Was," Rachel corrected.  
  
"What?"  
  
"He was. If he ever was, but I'm saying he's not now."  
  
"Do we have to do this?" Finn asked.  
  
"Finn, you know as well as anyone that my dads-"  
  
"It's different. Both of them are gay."  
  
"Yes, they're my two gay dads," Rachel replied like it was obvious.  
  
"I'm not. Neither is Sam. And Puck-"  
  
"-is happy," she stated unequivocally. "Besides, do you really think if Puck wanted Kurt to go away, that he would have any trouble saying so?"  
  
"I did," Finn replied. "He kept following me around like a puppy and I didn't want to, y'know, kick him or something-"  
  
"So now you've kicked him repeatedly and stomped on his head," Rachel concluded.   
  
"I didn't."  
  
"He's practically your brother - can't you see how miserable he is? How lonely and down on himself?" She shook her head. "Starting with the duets assignment, he was so...He's finally found someone who likes him and they're happy. Why can't you be happy for him instead?"  
  
"If I did to you the things he did to me, you would take out a restraining order."  
  
"Such as?" she asked.  
  
Put on the spot, he had a hard time coming up with something eloquent. "The ballad-"  
  
"He didn't select you, Finn, you drew his name from a hat." She neglected to add how she had thrown herself at Mr. Schue that same week. That was probably a story best left untold.  
  
"He set up our parents to get close to me."  
  
"And it's a good thing he did - otherwise you would have never gotten Mr. Hummel, and even though he's mad at you right now he's important to you - right? Otherwise you wouldn't care so much that he's pissed at you." When Finn didn't readily respond, she added, "Besides, your mom's really happy."  
  
"He moved me into his room so he could... _stare_  at me."  
  
"Even if he was responsible for that, which he claims he wasn't, wouldn't you stare? If you were sharing a room with me or even with Quinn or someone else you found attractive-"  
  
"Yeah, but I wouldn't be because I'd be a guy and she'd be - or you'd be - a girl."  
  
"So your problem really does come down to homophobia," she concluded quietly.  
  
"I really wish people would stop using that word."  
  
"It fits, Finn," she stated, sounding utterly heartbroken. "If you would be flattered if a girl did it but are disgusted if a guy does it, then it's homophobia and sexism-"  
  
"He  _threw_  himself at me!"  
  
She looked at him sadly. "So did I. We both did - it was kind of a rivalry, actually." A year after the fact, she regretted that she'd been right when she'd told him that if they were second choice, or fiftieth, she would still win because she was a girl; not because she regretted that she had Finn, but because it hadn't occurred to her yet how sad and isolated Kurt was. Now, knowing what she knew...she kind of wished she could go back and not say it. It was like pouring salt in a big gay wound. "We both saw what a good heart you had and wanted to be part of that. Now..." She stood, gathering the remnants of her fries. "I think you should take me home."  
  
"But the movie-"  
  
"No thanks, I don't think I'd be able to properly sing Barbra Streisand tonight. While a certain amount of agony is necessary to do her songs justice, the jubilant defiance of the more iconic numbers would be too painful tonight." When it took Finn a minute to understand what she was saying, she added, "Just take me home, please."  
  
She had some thinking to do.  
  
* * * * *  
  
He hadn't expected to break down in tears over coffee. He really hadn't.   
  
It wasn't even just talking about the bullying, about getting slammed into his locker every single day, about how no one - except Rachel - even tried to help anymore because they were so used to it. Just the act of  _talking_  did it.  
  
He tried to remember the last time he'd had a real, in-depth, talking about his feelings conversation with anyone. His dad, he supposed, but even then they tended to stick more to operational details and facts, thoughts if they were really going deep, but emotions went unspoken. And after a lot of thought, and realizing that the closest he'd come in a long time was telling the glee club about the day of his mother's funeral, it occurred to him that he probably hadn't even tried to have a conversation with someone who would understand him since he was 6, before his mom got sick. He knew his dad loved him and would fight for him - Friday had more than proven that - but it wasn't the same when he had to explain why everything was the way it was. And he and Puck didn't do deep conversation; not like they were too busy fucking to ever speak to each other, but they respected each others' emotional walls too much to transgress the boundaries like that.   
  
Blaine didn't need him to explain why being shoved around hurt more than his back, and he didn't need a half-hearted description of how worthless it made him feel when no one noticed. He didn't need to be told why the straight guys at the table wouldn't understand it the same way - he knew. He'd been through it. He was the boy who lived through it.  
  
And while Kurt had rolled his eyes at Blaine's initial "I understand what you're going through" - because he was used to hearing it and so freaking sick of it. Mr. Schue didn't understand. He was never going to because when he was in school he was Finn. Not even Puck - he was Finn. The glee club back then was golden, they were popular, they got him the blonde cheerleader wife even if she did go completely crazy in fifteen years. But people said they understood as a way to try to make him feel like he was being heard.  
  
It was the first time in his life he'd actually felt understood when someone used the word 'understand.'   
  
But the way Blaine painted the picture, like...like he wouldn't feel any better at Dalton, like he'd be full of regret for running away? It felt like that glimmer of hope, that shining glittering beacon had been moved back an extra 50 yards, out of reach.  
  
Fight back? He'd tried. His father had tried to teach him how to throw a punch when he was getting his ass kicked at age 9 for wearing a bowtie to school. He'd gotten his face smashed in so badly he'd been lucky his teeth only ended up slightly misaligned instead of broken. And that was back when he was almost the same size as most of them; now, a good 8 inches shorter than his tormentors and literally half their weight, there was no way he would come out of the fight alive.   
  
And as much as he wished he could believe Blaine's point about fear just being ignorance, he highly doubted a civics lesson about the values of tolerance and inclusion were going to get him any points. Maybe it would help in thirty years, but right now? While he was stuck in that fucking school with teachers who didn't even look up anymore?  
  
No, he concluded. Blaine knew what he was talking about. After all, he'd been through it - he stood more a chance of understanding than anyone else Kurt had ever met. The fact that it was the same advice his father had given him during the whole Diva-off thing made him wonder if he shouldn't have thrown the note and should have taken his dad's advice in the first place, but that wasn't the point.  
  
He could do this. Maybe. He hoped.  
  
When he got home from coffee and had a friend request from Blaine, he tried not to think about the way his stomach kind of jumped. He smiled - he couldn't help it. Just thinking about Blaine made him feel better. Less alone. Less like a freak, even though he highly doubted Blaine's closet at home was secretly filled with his own collection of Beyonce and Gaga costumes. He clicked "accept" and began to explore his profile - not like a stalker or anything, he just didn't know much about the guy yet.  
  
It was the first time he'd seen a profile other than his own that read:  
  
Sex: Male  
Interested in: Men  
  
(And other stuff in between there. Like hey, he knew Blaine's birthday now, and that he had a big sister off at college. And was single.)  
  
He'd seen a few that didn't list an 'interested in,' which of course meant he assumed that they were gay - at least a little. But staring at the white page with its blue borders and openness right there in black, he decided he could trust Blaine on this.   
  
* * * * *  
  
"Sam?" The ex-quarterback lifted his head to see Kurt standing above his library carroll, notebook clutched awkwardly to his chest. "Can I talk to you a second?"  
  
"Is it about my hair again?"  
  
Kurt smiled very faintly. "No."  
  
"Then sure, dude. I needed a break anyway." Sam stretched his arms over his head, then stood and slipped his book and notebook under his arm. As they left the library and stepped into the hall, he said, "Hey, if it's about the glee assignment - I'm sorry 'bout the other day, dude, we were kinda jerks. If you still wanna do the mashup you did, I'm game. I mean, I don't wanna wear a boa or anything, and I'd kinda rather be, y'know, fully dressed 'cause playing The Creature was a little much, but I liked those jacket things. The blue ones."  
  
Kurt blinked and hardly knew what to say to that. "Thank you," he replied politely. "Actually, I wanted to ask about your old school. It was all-boys?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam nodded. "What about it?"  
  
There were so many things he wanted to ask, but he couldn't even find the words. "What was it like?" he asked finally, his voice soft.  
  
"I don't really know how to answer that," Sam said with an awkward smile. "It's like trying to sum up what this school's like in one word."  
  
"Hell," Kurt replied automatically, and Sam stopped walking. Now it was his turn to not know what to say. After a moment, Kurt asked, "Why did you leave?"  
  
Sam shrugged and looked a little uncomfortable. "My grades sucked. Not 'cause I wasn't working or whatever, but they got kind of douchey about the dyslexia once I got to high school. And my parents figured it wasn't really worth it to send me if I was going to be getting lousy scores anyway, and here there's ADA stuff...I dunno. It's not bad."  
  
"You miss it?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam said. "Well...kind of. I miss the guys. I had awesome friends there - they totally got me, y'know? Here it's like...they get parts of me, like football or music or whatever, but they look at me like I'm the world's biggest geek sometimes. At school, we'd have whole conversations in Na'vi or Klingon or Elvish - I'm getting out of practice now." He shrugged. "But I don't miss the school part. Getting bitched at and stuff for crap that wasn't my fault? Wouldn't go back for that."  
  
"Do you ever feel like you...like you ran away from it?" Kurt asked. Even though he felt like Blaine was right - like he must be right because he was the guy who'd done it - a part of him couldn't shake the feeling that he would be so much happier at Dalton that it would overshadow any possible regret.   
  
"Not really," Sam replied. "It was something I had to do, y'know? It wasn't gonna work for me there, I gave it the best try I could, and coming here was what's best for me. And my parents and whatever."  
  
That made sense. And Kurt knew his father worried about him too much - and that was with his dad not knowing 90% of what was going on at school. For every bruise his dad knew about, every slushie stain he saw, there were dozens more he didn't. It was bad enough before, but now after the heart attack...it couldn't be good for anyone, him staying where he was. That was without even getting into all the shit with Finn.  
  
"What's up, dude?" Sam asked, his hand catching Kurt's elbow. Kurt shivered, remembering the electricity of Blaine's fingers on his lapel, but avoided Sam's gaze. He was still in the land of straight boys, even as sweet and gentlemanly as Sam was, and he needed to respect that.  
  
"Nothing," Kurt replied.  
  
"Yeah right."  
  
"I found this school that I think would be incredible, but one of the guys I met there said he regretted leaving his school because he felt like he'd run away from his problems there. It makes sense, but I feel like-" His phone chirped and he pulled it out to see a text from Blaine.  
  
One word.  
  
 _Courage_  
  
"Puck?" Sam asked, seeing the smile on Kurt's face.  
  
"No. No, just a friend. It was just a message I needed to see," Kurt replied honestly. "I should go. But thanks."  
  
"No problem," Sam replied.  
  
Kurt walked off down the hall. As he approached his locker, he heard snickering and whispers. Fully expecting some sort of graffiti, he reached into his pocket and clutched his phone.  _Courage,_  he reminded himself, drawing in a deep breath and putting on his most disaffected "I'm too busy for any of you peasants" look as he pushed through the crowd.  
  
He figured there would be some kind of slur spray-painted across the beige metal. Probably one starting with an f - either three or six letters. A twelve-letter hyphenated slang term would at least win them some style points, especially if it was spelled correctly - which was unlikely. More likely it would just be a big picture of a penis; that way no one would have to worry about what letters were backwards or-  
  
He stopped short. A loop of something hung across the front of his locker like a lei, held in place by a square of neon pink duct tape. At first all he could discern was the smell - the fomaldehyde that had been lingering in the hall all week assaulted his senses and he felt dizzy. As he stepped closer, he could see the somethings dangling from the loop of string were pink and fleshy. And some were kind of dangly.  
  
Oh god. They hadn't-  
  
While he hadn't taken biology class yet, so he couldn't verify for certain what the mostly-developed reproductive system of a fetal pig would look like, the "cat with the canary" grins of the onlookers told him that, at the very least, they  _thought_  they had given him a necklace of pig scrotums. For all he knew it could have been a section cut from the back of the neck or something, but the message they were trying to get across was received loud and clear.  
  
What made him really nauseous wasn't that they had done it, wasn't even wondering who had done it or how, but the fact that someone had thought ahead enough to bring some kind of glittering beads to bejewel the whole thing. Make it more festive, apparently. He remembered stories about how every year, the science teachers would have to literally count eyeballs when they did the class shark dissection project because kids liked to take them and play with them (apparently they bounced), but  _this-_  
  
He very calmly and very haughtily walked back through the crowd and down the hall that led to the parking lot. He was proud of himself for managing to mostly ignore the peals of laughter and explosion of catcalls behind him; years of school had taught him well there. His shoulders ached from standing so ramrod straight, his eyes burned as he refused - absolutely  _refused_  - to let them see him care. His fingers clutched the strap of his bag so tightly that they turned white and started to shake, but he kept walking. He got into his car and drove off school grounds, not stopping until he reached the mostly-empty lot over by the park.   
  
He had to calm down. He knew what he needed to do next and he couldn't look like this when he arrived. If he did, if he still looked like he felt like he looked, there would be a freak-out and he didn't need to be in the position of trying to justify it all and claim he was fine.   
  
He wasn't fine. He would never be  _fine_  there, and he was sick of pretending he was so that everyone could call him brave. He was exhausted and ready to crack and felt like, if he stayed there? He would literally just drive his car into the pond at the edge of town one day because he wouldn't care enough to keep it on the road anymore. He was tired of feeling passively suicidal and having it followed up by no one noticing whether he was there or not, what state he was in when he showed up...no. He wasn't going to do that anymore. He was going to take a stand.  
  
Hatred was just ignorance? Bullshit. This wasn't people who said "that's so gay" because they didn't know any better. This was fun for them, this was  _sport_.  
  
Drawing in a deep breath to calm his nerves and strengthen his resolve, he drove the additional two-ish miles to his destination. The slam of his door was loud enough that his dad came out of the shop to investigate. "Kurt? What are you doing here - it's not even 1:30 yet."  
  
With all the strength and courage he could muster, and sounding as firm as he could, he stated, "Dad, I need you to pull me out of school. I'm transferring. Now."


	3. Chapter 3

Kurt had to give his father credit – the first word out of his mouth wasn’t “No.”  
  
“I can’t picture you wearing a uniform.” Burt leaned against the desk as he peered over Kurt’s shoulder at the computer screen.  
  
“It’s hideous, but if a tacky jacket and elephant-ear grey pants are the worst indignity I have to deal with, I would sell every Alexander McQueen in my closet.” Burt knew very little about his son’s clothes other than how expensive some of that stuff was, and there were a lot of names that were thrown around, but he knew that was the one that Kurt said with the most reverence. This meant his kid was serious.  
  
“What is this place, anyway?” he asked.  
  
“Dalton Academy,” Kurt replied, pointing at the banner on the webpage.  
  
“Yeah, I see that part, but why this one?”  
  
Kurt didn’t want to tell that part of the story. It would hurt his credibility, he knew, if he had to tell his father that he discovered the school during an espionage mission that took place when he should have technically been in school. But he wasn’t sure how to explain how he knew what he knew without telling the rest of it. “I met a few of the guys who go there,” he offered vaguely. “From their choir.”  
  
“They good or something?”  
  
“They’re incredible,” he said, and even Burt – who didn’t have any problem admitting he could be oblivious sometimes – could see how impressed Kurt was by them. And Kurt was kind of a snob about music stuff; he could afford to be, Burt reasoned, with how good he was and all. “But it’s more than that. They have a strict anti-bullying policy. One of the guys I met, Blaine? He’s openly gay and on one cares. He’s practically their version of Finn, the glee club there is bigger than our football team-“  
  
At the mention of Finn in the same breath as a guy Kurt said was open, Burt’s mouth settled in a grim line. “So it’s about a guy,” he stated.  
  
“No,” Kurt replied, his voice tight and frustrated. Even his own father thought it was over a social life.   
  
“I thought you and that Puck were-“  
  
“We are. It’s not about a guy.”  
  
“Look, I was 16 once, I get-“  
  
“They tied pig testicles to my locker,” he blurted out, and that stopped his dad – if only because of the shock value. He sighed softly. “It’s getting worse, Dad – the harassment, the mocking, the physical…everything. It’s not just slushies anymore. When you asked about the bruise the other day?”  
  
“The one on your side – what’d they do, throw you into a dumpster again or something?”  
  
“Against the lockers. I’m surprised my locker isn’t dented by now – god knows I am.” The attempt at humor and forced fluffy smile like it didn’t bother him almost took more effort than he had. It didn’t used to be this hard to hold himself together, even around his father which had always taken a little more effort to be distant. “At least twice a day. Some days literally between every single class.”  
  
“Who’s doing this?” Burt demanded. He’d take names and kick ass, heart attack be damned.  
  
“Everyone,” Kurt said quietly. He tore his gaze away from the top of the computer screen to look his dad in the eye for a moment, and the almost apologetic watery smile he offered – as if he were saying ‘I’m sorry, Dad, I tried’ – made Burt’s heart literally ache in his chest…more than usual. “It’s not just Azimio and Karofsky anymore. Now it’s everyone else who knows they can get away with it.”  
  
“Can’t Puck or Finn, y’know, one of the bigger guys-“  
  
Kurt choked out a laugh. “Because they don’t already think I’m weak enough?” Burt knew it was a valid point, but he didn’t know how else to protect him. He couldn’t go walking around with his son all day to make sure no assholes shoved him around or threw crap at him. “Besides, Finn’s not exactly siding with me on this one, he’s already afraid enough of being called gay. And Puck-“ He didn’t know how to put that part into words.   
  
“He being a jerk or something?” Burt growled.  
  
“No – no, not at all.” Well, he’d been a jerk a few mornings earlier, but that wasn’t the real problem, and on all the bullying stuff…  
  
“You don’t want to worry him,” Burt concluded quietly.  
  
“It’s finally calming down for him, and he’s not running away or trying to shove us into a closet somewhere.” Except one time, recreationally, but his dad didn’t need that image. “But the reason it’s ramping up is because they know we’re dating.” Burt wasn’t sure how that made any sense, and he could tell Kurt was trying to explain it, but it wasn’t something he could really grasp hold of and put words together. “I-…You know I try, and it’s not like any of this is new. I’ve been dealing with bullies since I started my first day of school, it’s almost a given at this point. But it’s…” He swallowed and his face contorted like it was physically painful for him to say, “It’s  _really_  bad.”  
  
The fact that Kurt was even telling him meant it had to be much worse than usual, Burt knew. While Kurt would complain about unfairness, in particular double standards, he didn’t complain about bullying. He could come home smelling like piss – and literally had once – and would brush it off before scurrying downstairs to shower. To actually admit things were bad, the words alone would have clued him in. The fact that they came when Kurt had shown up mid-afternoon and were accompanied by that utterly defeated look?  
  
“Let’s look at this school, huh?” Burt asked. His voice was thick and gruff, but Kurt knew him well enough to know it was one of those few times where his dad was in the ballpark of tears.   
  
Over the next fifteen minutes, Kurt showed him the academics with all the AP courses and great extracurriculars, the various choirs and theater groups – in particular the Warblers – and the diversity statements and anti-bullying policy.  
  
Then he clicked on the fateful “tuition” link.  
  
Burt’s face hardened for a minute, then fell. “Kurt-“  
  
“I know,” he whispered, staring at the number.   
  
“Even in a good year, buddy, that’s just…”  
  
“A lot. I know.”  
  
“And with this year, with the medical bills and how much business fell off when I had to be out-“  
  
“Dad.” He did his best to still his quivering lip and set his jaw firmly. “It’s okay. I understand. I knew it was a lot, I didn’t know it was this much. You don’t have to explain.”   
  
He did understand. He knew things were tighter now than most years, and he knew that even in good years they weren’t wealthy. It just wasn’t until he put a number to it all that he realized just how out of reach his fantasy was.  
  
“If I used your whole college fund and we chanced it on this school getting you a scholarship somewhere…”  
  
“No,” he said slowly. The ticket out at 18 was the only thing that had kept him sane thus far; having that evaporate for a little under two years of high school couldn’t be worth it. “I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have wasted time on this.” He closed the window and moved over to the table to start working on the assignments he knew he had missed by leaving school early.  
  
Burt had expected his son to fight him on it, to bargain, to offer to sell everything in his room, to…to  _something_. This was obviously important to him, any fool could see that, and one of the things he had always admired about Kurt was his strength. His ability to walk through the halls in ten inch heels took a lot more than just good balance – it took guts. Even if he didn’t get why Kurt did most of what he did, he recognized and was proud of how much courage his kid had the way other parents crowed about academics. He knew his son was smart, that was important, but not nearly as crucial – or rare – as his son’s bravery.  
  
That was gone now. The boy sitting at the table, head hung over his math book, resignedly answering problem sets looked nothing like his son with all the energy and strength and  _hope_  just drained out of him like that.  
  
It didn’t just break his heart. It terrified him.  
  
He knew a lot of gay kids killed themselves, he knew a lot more tried, and he knew that if losing his wife had nearly destroyed him…  
  
“Look,” he said. “I’m gonna start looking into stuff, okay? See if we can’t at least get you moved next district over or something. Or home schooling – you’re smart enough, you always did most stuff on your own anyway.”  
  
“Sure, Dad,” Kurt replied softly, but it was obvious from his tone he didn’t really believe anything would come of it. All thoughts to the contrary were just illusions – beautiful, glittering, and unobtainable.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Puck knew something was up when Kurt didn't even care about getting reamed out for missing class. Usually the guy was all apologetic or whatever, polite, and like he actually regretted missing their class - total freak - but he just shrugged, waited for the lecture to end, and walked to his next class.  
  
Puck had to admit, for a minute he was kind of proud - he was rubbing off on Kurt and making him not be such an anal-retentive guy about stuff. But then he actually  _looked_  at Kurt. His eyes were dull, like he wasn't really paying attention to anything. Usually he looked bored but like he was still checking out everything around him; today he looked either high or really fucking depressed about something, and since his eyes weren't bloodshot or anything and his pupils seemed normal, and he doubted Kurt would know where to get anything that wasn't through him, that meant the second option.   
  
No, seriously. Dude looked like the week his dad was in the hospital. That was just fucking  _bad_.  
  
"Hey," he smiled charmingly as he sidled up to Kurt and looped his arm around his plaid-covered waist. Kurt bristled for a moment, then went back to looking like he couldn't bring himself to care. "What's up?"  
  
"Nothing," Kurt replied.   
  
"You wanna go somewhere?" he asked. When Kurt quirked an eyebrow, Puck added, "Seriously. Hang out or whatever." Nothing. "Dude, I'm offering to go to the freaking mall with you. And the mall's only good for picking up chicks. And Orange Julius."  
  
Kurt gave a faint smile and replied, "No. But I appreciate the offer - and how much power that means you're giving me. You've never seen me in a mall. I take no prisoners," he added, but Puck wasn't that stupid - he wasn't fine. He didn't know what was going on, but something was. But since he didn't really do talking, and neither did Kurt, it wasn't like they could go have some lame conversation.  
  
"I know a spot out by the bleachers no one ever checks," Puck offered. He knew sex could cheer Kurt up - he had firsthand evidence of that. Except for the part where then the guy started crying. That part sucked. Kurt looked like he might be considering it, then pulled his phone from his pocket to check his incoming text. "Tell Mercedes you're doing something way better than math class," he grinned.  
  
He didn't know what the text said, but he knew Kurt looked...not  _happy_ , he wasn't that good, but kind of peaceful. Like he'd been nervous about getting news, and the news turned out okay or something.  
  
"I should go," Kurt said. "I'll see you at lunch." With a quick kiss, he drew in a deep breath and moved out of Puck's grasp.  
  
He walked down the hall holding his phone, staring at the screen at Blaine’s text. He could do this. He could…he could handle this. Others like him had survived high school and escaped, and he-…well, he had to. He didn’t have an out and no one else was going to stand up for him. He was on his own.  
  
He wasn’t entirely alone – that was a plus, right? He had Puck, who…okay, while kind of clueless and somehow indeed badass enough to get away with dating a gay guy with minimal social repercussions…was a decent guy and did genuinely seem to care about him. He had his dad. He had Blaine now, apparently, at least a little.  
  
Maybe Blaine’s comment about courage and standing up didn’t have to be quite as solitary as he had thought. After all, Puck’s reputation had been able to rub off on a number of people in the past – maybe instead of his own reputation bringing Puck’s down, he could really take advantage of dating the school stud and elevate his status. After all, if he could hold the attention of the hottest guy in school, that had to do  _something_  for his social standing, right? Maybe he could-  
  
Azimio’s elbow jammed suddenly into his back between his shoulder blades, sending him careening face-first into a locker. His forehead slammed against the metal vents and a soft grunt of pain escaped as he dropped his phone. He felt himself falling, and his fingers scrambled to try to grab a hold onto something to help pull himself up again. Two fingers looped through the loop of a combination lock but slipped quickly out again as he fell to his knees on the floor, the metal-on-metal echo serving to draw a few raised eyebrows. When they saw who had caused the clatter, they all went back to their conversations.  
  
On his hands and knees on the linoleum, his phone now flung several feet away, suddenly something in him snapped. _Refuse to be the victim._  He was sick of sitting around and waiting for them to slam him around. He was sick of feeling like everyone would be happier if he just disappeared, like that would make it easier for people.   
  
No – he wasn’t just tired of it. He was  _angry_.  
  
 _Stand up to them. Fight back._  Blaine’s words echoed in his mind. What else was he going to do, anyway? Tell a teacher? Take him to court for assault? Ignore him and hope it would go away like he’d been told since he was six freaking years old?  
  
Besides, what was the worst that could happen? Getting suspended, expelled – at least no one had ever shoved him down the stairs in his own basement. Getting his ass kicked – that was nothing new. And whether he left school in handcuffs or on a gurney, he’d be out of there.   
  
Kurt lept to his feet. “What is your  _problem_?” he screamed.  
  
That got Azimio’s attention – and a few others. “What was that, Hummel?”  
  
“What. The hell. Is your freaking problem?” he demanded, stalking towards Azimio. The football player looked at him like he’d lost his mind, but Kurt realized he was lucky – Azimio was bigger than he was, but not as big as Karofsky. He was heavy but not muscular, and because he was a linebacker his body was as slow as his wit.  
  
“You wanna dance or something?” Azimio snorted.  
  
"What is wrong with you?" His hands were balled up in fists at his sides. "Why do I scare you so much that you think you have to pummel me into the ground? Or is it a power thing, you have to prove how big and strong you are? I'm half your size, what do you think that proves except that you don't have very high ambitions even compared to your miniscule talent."  
  
"You watch your mouth-"  
  
And then Kurt did something that, in retrospect, was incredibly stupid.  
  
He shoved him.  
  
Azimio moved backwards only a step and immediately lunged forward that extra step, fist raised above Kurt's head. "Go ahead!" he yelled, voice high and raspy and raw, arms out to his sides. "Go ahead - hit me." He looked Azimio right in the eye, practically daring him.  
  
Azimio looked uncomfortable but like he couldn't back down without having to move to another state and change his name. Losing to the resident cocksucker couldn't be good for his reputation, Kurt knew, and he barely repressed a smirk at the thought. "Stop looking at me like that, dude!"  
  
"Why?" Kurt pressed. His jaw jutted out defiantly. "Think I might do something to you?"  
  
"Not if you know what's good for you. Try and get me like you got Puckerman? I’m not some fa-“  
  
Before his mouth could close around the ‘g’, Kurt swung.   
  
* * * * *  
  
For all Burt thought his kid was weird sometimes, he recognized he got lucky in a lot of ways with Kurt. When he was thirteen and should have been painting his bedroom black and putting up death metal posters, he was painting the basement some shade of white and putting up photographer lights with the big umbrellas. His clothes were expensive and...okay, downright strange. But he wasn't going around with groups of kids who were likely to get him arrested - this new boyfriend of his maybe aside. He did his homework, he got good grades, he helped out at the store and was respectful to little old ladies in the street.  
  
So when Burt got a call from Kurt's school, his immediate thought was that his son was on his way to a hospital or something. The school never called him - they never had a reason to.  
  
He raced to McKinley and strode as quickly as he could through the hall, trying to figure out why in the world his son would be sitting in the principal's office. When he burst through the door and saw Kurt sitting in one chair, looking almost stunned, while Schuester sat on the couch and looked confused, he had even less of a clue what was going on. Figgins just looked pissed, but that wasn't new.  
  
"Mr. Hummel, have a seat."  
  
He started to sit, then got a good luck at Kurt's face. His jawline was bruising, his cheek swelling a little, but what really looked bad was his forehead - it was already dark purple with patches of green, raised into a large goose egg, with two cuts running parallel across it. "What the hell happened?"  
  
"Mr. Hummel, your son is being suspended for fighting."  
  
"Are you kidding me?" he demanded. If this was how bad Kurt's face looked, he could only imagine how many other bruises there were covered by his clothes.   
  
"Your son started a fight with another boy."  
  
"There's no way that's true. My kid's not that much of an idiot. And he's good at a lot of things, but I've seen him try to throw a punch."  
  
"We have statements from thirty-seven witnesses!"  
  
"I didn't start it," Kurt stated flatly. He couldn't believe he had tried to stand up to him like that. What the hell had he been thinking? He was half Azimio's size and had only escaped alive after realizing that he had a fourth gift he had neglected to mention when listing them for Sam.   
  
Yes. He had won his first fight the same way he won his first football game, and he almost didn't care it was a cheap shot.  
  
"Y'hear that? He didn't start it. And even if people say he did - you see his face? Why the hell isn't the other kid in here?"  
  
"McKinley has a strict no violence policy-"  
  
"Are you kidding me?" Burt demanded.  
  
"Mr. Hummel, I think Kurt's been going through something-"  
  
"You're damn right he's been going through something, Schuester, he's getting his ass kicked every day around here."  
  
While his father was his most fervent and supportive defender, Kurt knew, he didn't actually swear that often. Even when chewing out Finn for being a homophobic jerk, maybe three words. Two in one sentence? That had to be unprecedented.  
  
"Sir, please calm down," Figgins said.  
  
"My son's got slices all across his forehead that I don't even know how he got them-"  
  
"Slammed me into the locker," Kurt replied, staring straight ahead, fingers resting at his thankfully-unbruised temple.  
  
"But you've got  _him_  in here as a problem? What the hell have you people been doing? Non-violence policy?"  
  
"Okay, I think maybe we should all step back a second," Mr. Schue tried. "Obviously no one is condoning what the other students have been doing to Kurt. But picking a fight like that-"  
  
"So if a kid slams him into a locker, he's supposed to just sit there and take it," Burt concluded. He was livid. Teaching kids to talk through things instead of fight, he didn't really get but knew it was probably a good idea - if it worked. The problem was obviously it wasn't working. Anyone who saw Kurt's face and still thought it worked was either naive or stupid.   
  
Figgins was an idiot, but he wasn't the one Burt was really pissed at. "Where've you been in all this, Schuester?" he demanded. That was enough to shake Kurt out of his vacant forward stare.   
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"You talk about looking out for the kids in the glee club - I know how Finn talks about you, you go to bat for him all the time. Why's Kurt different?"  
  
"I tried to talk to him and he made it very clear he didn't want my-"  
  
"After how long?" he asked. When Schuester looked confused, Burt added, "When'd you try to talk to him?"  
  
"This week."  
  
"Where you been the last two years? You stood up for Finn from day one, that Rachel girl, you even defend that juvenile delinquent Kurt's dating. But you come in here and say he should be suspended when it's his ass that's getting kicked every day?" Burt stood, shaking his head. "Enough's enough. I'm finding him another school."  
  
"His two-day suspension still stands," Figgins stated.  
  
"C'mon Kurt - we're leaving," he stated, and while it was more of a glower than a glare, Mr. Schue realized that there might be a genetic component to Kurt's trademark icy expression after all.  
  
Kurt stood, gathered his bag and coat, and walked out as collected as if nothing had happened. He was well-practiced.  
  
His dad was silent all the way out to the parking lot. "You okay?" he asked roughly.  
  
"Fine," he replied.  
  
Burt cupped his chin and tilted Kurt's face to try and get a better look. "That forehead looks pretty bad."  
  
"I'll live."  
  
"Yeah...prob'ly doesn't need stitches. You black out or anything?"  
  
He didn't know. He hadn't been unconscious at any point, but so much of the fight was just a blur. "I don't think so."  
  
"C'mon - I'll drive you home, we'll get your car tonight." Kurt nodded - he probably wasn't in much of a position to protest. As they reached the truck, Burt asked, "Didya start it?"  
  
It occurred to him that his dad hadn't actually asked before defending him. It was nice - and a reasonable bet. "Sort of. He slammed me harder than usual, and I tried to confront him about it."  
  
"Who threw the first punch?"  
  
"That would be me." His voice was clipped but distant.  
  
Burt stared at him. "Who won?"  
  
"Me again."  
  
His confusion moved into an expression more closely associated with pride. "Buddy, I don't mean to sound...y'know, but...how the hell'd that happen?"  
  
"Cheap shot," Kurt replied.  
  
Burt nodded, jaw set, and after a moment's hesitation placed his hand firmly on Kurt's shoulder. "Not that you shouldn't stand up for yourself, but you know that was stupid, right?"  
  
"Oh, believe me. I'm well aware."  
  
Burt nodded again and released Kurt's shoulder as he got into the car.   
  
* * * * *  
  
The first text was the easiest to send.  _Standing up for one's self isn't all it's cracked up to be._  
  
It was when Blaine's response ( _Are you okay_?) came in that he had no idea what to say.  
  
Strictly speaking he wasn't okay - not in any sense of the word. He'd tried getting out, he'd tried sucking it up and dealing with it, he'd tried standing up for himself...he wasn't sure what other options there were anymore. And he knew that sitting around and being depressed about it wasn't going to make any of it better, but draped across his least comfortable chair with his phone clutched in his hands, all he could manage to type was  _Not really._  
  
He waited longer than expected for the next text, but considering Blaine was still at school he supposed he couldn't be too surprised that there might be something else to do that didn't involve messaging him.   
  
 _Meet me at school tomorrow at 4._  
  
He instinctively wanted to type "Why?" but realized that he didn't really need an excuse.   
  
A second message came a few seconds later.  _I have a surprise for you._  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a friend helping fabfemmeboy to transfer his collection of works over to AO3. I believe that this story was written before the Born This Way episode.

He was trying to calm down a massively freaked-out Mercedes when he heard the doorbell ring. Since his father was back at work - thanks to his repeated assertions that he was fine, he didn't have a severe head injury of some kind, and he would call if anything got even remotely worse - so he ascended the stairs to investigate. "Really, Mercedes, it wasn't that bad."  
  
"You got suspended."  
  
"Gross miscarriage of justice," he replied stiffly.   
  
"You started a fight with  _Azimio_? Boy, what is going on with you these days? It's like you're losing your mind or something. You couldn't at least wait for backup? You know I woulda had your back."  
  
He knew she genuinely believed that, and he didn't have the heart to point out to her that no one had his back. Even the people who should have, the people who liked him and supported him and meant well, didn't notice how bad things were. "It wasn't premeditated," he pointed out instead as he got to the door. "It just kind of-" He opened it to reveal Puck and fell silent.  
  
Puck looked him up and down. Kurt looked like shit. Even if you could get past the giant knotty bruise with cuts and whatever on his forehead, he just looked horrible. Between the bruises, the way his shoulders kind of sagged in defeat, how sore he looked when he moved...the dude was wearing pajamas. Non-designer pajamas, too. He didn't even know what to think of that.   
  
"I've gotta go," Kurt said quietly.  
  
"Yeah, yeah - tell Puck I said hello," Mercedes replied, rolling her eyes, as Kurt hung up and pocketed the phone.  
  
"I heard you kicked Azimio's ass," Puck stated, hands jammed in his jean pockets.  
  
"That remains to be seen," Kurt replied distantly. He turned and walked down to the basement, and Puck followed him. He sounded like his usual self - well, a much more tired version of his usual self. But when it was just the two of them, alone, in one of their houses? Usually the shield went down a little. The whole ice queen thing was an act Kurt put on at school, not around him. And something about it seemed...off. Like it was  _almost_  the ice queen whatever but not quite.  
  
Something about it seemed...and he wasn't sure why he even thought it, but seemed kind of like he'd felt like he'd looked over the summer. Like everything was the same, nothing was up, he was still Puckzilla, but everything felt a thousand miles away. It was like looking at the world from six inches behind his eyeballs - everything else was out there and he was...stuck.  
  
Kurt looked like that feeling. Whatever that shitty feeling was.  
  
"Look, I know we don't do the...y'know, I said I don't do talking, and I don't. But if  _you_  want to-"  
  
The mere awkward suggestion earned a death glare from the shorter boy. "I don't want to talk about it."  
  
"Fine, dude, relax," Puck said, holding up his hands. "Whatever, I wasn't gonna waterboard you or something."  
  
"You of all people should get that," he stated firmly.   
  
"Okay, no talking. Got it," Puck replied shortly. He leaned unceremoniously against the wall.   
  
"Of all the things I need right now, one more person listening to my personal litany of far-from-random violence is last on the list."  
  
"So what do ya need?"  
  
Kurt stepped forward quickly and leaned up to kiss him almost desperately, one hand moving up to the back of Puck's neck while the other wrapped tightly around his lower back. Puck quirked an eyebrow and returned the kiss. Kurt pulled away just as suddenly as he had begun and stared up at Puck, almost daring him to object; When he didn't, Kurt practically dove in to kiss him again, eyes squeezed shut, as his soft lips moved roughly against Puck's mouth.  
  
It didn't take a rocket scientist to know what this was. And as someone who proudly used sex to avoid problems, at least temporarily, Puck wasn't about to stop him. He kinda hoped Kurt wouldn't end up crying again, but...whatever. If this was what Kurt needed, he wasn't gonna stand in the way.  
  
Kurt shoved his pants down and off before he shucked off his tshirt, and Puck couldn't conceal his reaction. The guy was like one big bruise, half his chest was fucking  _green_ , you could practically read 'adidas' on his side from where he got kicked. "Dude. You okay-"  
  
"Stop staring," Kurt commanded as he fumbled with Puck's jeans, drawing his arms across his torso as much as he could in that position and kind of ducking against Puck's chest to avoid that pitying look. Puck was supposed to be the one person who didn't look at him like that - Puck didn't look at  _anyone_  like that and for once he didn't take pride in being the first. "Please," he added, his voice softening just a little.  
  
Puck knew it was probably a little fucked up, but there was something a little hot about Kurt like this - all conquering with fresh battle scars? The guy had taken on a dude twice his size and, from the buzz around school, won. Who knew the resident fashionista who practically swished just standing still was tougher than half the guys in his fight club?   
  
He pulled his shirt over his head and pushed Kurt - gently enough to not hurt him but not enough that Kurt was gonna yell at him again - in the directly of the bed, and Kurt practically dragged him the rest of the way. He laid down and pulled Puck down on top of him, and Puck took the lack of obvious signs of pain from Kurt to mean that maybe it all looked a lot worse than it felt. Satisfied Kurt wasn't going to break or spontaneously break into a giant bloody mess or something, Puck smirked and began to practically devour Kurt's mouth. It was obvious from the moans that was exactly what Kurt wanted.  
  
Kurt wrapped his arms around Puck's back, fingers practically gripping the bare flesh of his muscular shoulders, and hitched a leg over Puck's hip to draw him as down and close as he could get. Puck's kisses were making him dizzy in the best possible way, making it impossible for him to think of anything but the weight of Puck's body against his, the feeling of his relatively-soft-but-unmoisturized skin, the smell of his aftershave. It felt - and he rolled his eyes at himself for even thinking it - safe. Like the only thing he had to worry about was his dad showing up early and freaking out.   
  
It wasn't a perfect solution, but for now it was the best option he had. Pleasure was always preferable to pain, and if there was anyone who understood that and wouldn't try to talk him out of it...it was the guy on top of him.  
  
Puck figured out pretty quickly that as long as Kurt was drawing him closer, keeping most of his weight on his arms wasn't an option - it was like staying in a pushup position forever. He lowered himself to one elbow and moved his free hand to Kurt's hip.  
  
For the past week or two, he'd started to wonder about sucking Kurt off. Not like it turned him on to think about a dick in his mouth - he still wasn't  _that_  gay and seriously doubted it'd have the same effect on him that Kurt got when giving him a blowjob. But wondering what Kurt would  _sound_  like, the look on his face...What? He couldn't help it - he got turned on by getting people off. What was so wrong about that?   
  
So - and he'd totally deny it if anyone ever asked - he'd started looking stuff up online about how to, y'know, make it fit. Cause while Kurt wasn't secretly a porn star or anything quite  _that_  obscenely large, the biggest thing he'd had in his mouth was Santana's boob before the implants and this was kind of different. And if he started choking, Kurt wasn't going to be moaning his name or anything and he'd have had the dick in his mouth for nothing. It had taken a couple different websites before he figured out that the sites aimed at girls sounded a lot less...weird, even if it did make him feel kind of scuzzy and lame. And because he actually, y'know,  _had_  a dick, he knew some of the advice about what guys liked was shit. But the fact that he knew more than the site made him feel more confident, like fuck yeah he could do that.   
  
He'd been saving this newly-found tutorial for a special occasion. Now, with Kurt practically clinging to him and trying to get like as close to him as possible, it seemed like the right time. The guy'd had a shitty week and wanted to feel better, right? Why not do it?  
  
Kurt whimpered as he moved away, but when Puck stopped with his head at crotch-level and quirked an eyebrow, Kurt's eyes widened. The feeling of warm breath against his groin made him almost shiver. He tried to watch, but when Puck's mouth wrapped around his cock his eyes slammed shut and his head dropped back against the pillow. He'd had hands there - Puck's and obviously his own - but nothing this hot or wet before. Let alone with  _suction_. He thought he might easily come in the first five seconds, it felt that good.  
  
The strength of his reaction surprised Puck who - while overconfident in all areas - still hadn't expected quite this instantaneous and emphatic a response.   
  
When he  _didn't_  actually embarrass himself in the first few moments, Kurt relaxed just a smidge. Puck's tongue was clumsy, a little rough, but still felt incredible to him. He reached down blindly and tangled his fingers in the strip of hair, and Puck was just glad that Kurt didn't do something really crappy like accidentally force his head downwards - that wouldn't work out well for either of them.   
  
It took more coordination than Puck had expected to get his hand and mouth to work at the same time - the girls he was used to made it look easy, especially Brittany who was notoriously stupid but apparently a sex savant. Either way, Kurt didn't seem to mind, not if the clenching fingers in his mohawk were any indication. His scalp was going to hurt for days with how hard the guy was pulling, but he didn't care enough to complain. Kurt needed this, and after all the blowjob tips he'd been picking up he kind of deserved it, too.   
  
The one problem, he realized too late, was the condom thing.  
  
See, insisting on it was Kurt's deal, and Puck figured that since Kurt's dick hadn't been anywhere but his own hand, and Kurt wasn't paranoid enough to think he had mouth herpes or something, it didn't matter. But he hadn't thought about the part where it meant he'd have to figure out what to do with the inevitable byproduct. He knew there was no way he was going to swallow, but where in that basement could he spit without Kurt killing him - not for not swallowing, but for staining something already-white and way too expensive?  
  
It tasted kind of funky and the texture was gross - not Kurt's fault or anything, he wouldn't swallow his own cream either - and that settled it: he needed to find somewhere to get rid of it even if did mean Kurt would yell at him for the next four days over ruining whatever it was he ruined. Before he could do anything, Kurt practically manhandled him back up to resume the hard, desperate open-mouth kissing.  
  
Even though it meant he was practically sucking his own come from Puck's mouth.  
  
Puck wasn't sure if that was the most disgusting or hottest thing he'd ever seen, but it was definitely one or the other.  
  
As he pulled back slightly and saw the look in Kurt's eyes - wanton, desperate for more - and watched as Kurt's tongue darted out to lick his lips, he concluded it was hot. No doubt.  
  
Kurt wrapped his legs around Puck's hips, which brought his cock to rest against Kurt's ass. He smirked and raised his eyebrows. "Want something?" he teased. Kurt's eyes flashed irritatedly, in no mood for teasing, and he tangled his fingers in the back of Puck's mohawk to draw Puck's mouth firmly down to his.  
  
Kurt let out a soft breathy moan of protest as Puck pulled back and settled on knees between Kurt's legs. Puck shot him a look that clearly asked 'What did you expect?' as he retrieved the lube and a condom. He lubed his first two fingers and ran them slowly from just behind Kurt's balls down along his crack, grinning as Kurt practically tried to get the fingers inside and fuck himself on them without any cooperation from Puck. When he slid in both fingers, Kurt arched and moaned loudly, pressing down to get the fingers as deep as he could.   
  
"Fuck me," Kurt whispered, and that got a higher eyebrow arch than usual from Puck. Kurt wasn't entirely quiet during sex, and he tended to make very clear through his actions when he wanted more, but he wasn't the dirty talk kind of guy. Not that it was a bad thing - Puck could be into that - it was just unusual. Maybe Kurt was even less okay than he thought. But at the same time, it wasn't like Kurt couldn't make up his mind about what he wanted.  
  
With a shrug, Puck put on the condom and made sure he had enough lube, then made sure he could find the hole and get the right angle (as he still had yet to live that one time down) and pressed in. Kurt gasped and craned his neck up to suck at the sensitive nook where Puck's neck and shoulder met - he'd discovered the spot a week ago and had been waiting for good opportunities to exploit it. Puck groaned and, following Kurt's lead, set a fast and semi-rough pace. Not like they were all soft and sweet normally or anything, but more than usual.  
  
Kurt wrapped his arms around Puck's back and hitched his legs up higher on Puck's hips, letting out a long moan against Puck's skin as his movement changed the angle. His fingers dug into Puck's shoulders and he didn't care that it felt kind of like his torso was being smashed by a hammer thanks to all the bruising. He still felt better than he had all week.  
  
"Faster," he grunted softly into Puck's neck, fingers tightening and trying to grasp on as much as they could. Puck hesitated a second, like he wasn't sure if that was a good idea, but ultimately complied. As far as he was concerned, it didn't last nearly long enough even though it was certainly about average for the amount of time Puck usually lasted fucking him.   
  
As Puck pulled out and disposed of the condom, he expected Kurt to react about like he had the last time he'd had comfort-sex - be pissed at himself for wanting that particular coping mechanism, take it out on Puck like it was all  _his_ fault for giving the guy what he wanted (hell, fucking  _begged_  for), then kick him out while practically curling into a big sobbing ball of pathetic. In resigned anticipation, Puck started to get up and find his clothes, but Kurt grabbed his hand.  
  
"Stay," he requested. He didn't look up at Puck but he could only imagine the eye-rolling that was going on. Puck didn't do sentimentality and romance and cuddling and that crap, and he knew that - he did. He wasn't trying to de-badass Puckasawrus or whatever Puck would say about it; he wasn't trying to reform the bad boy and make him into a teddy bear. But the previous- how long had it been? Hour? Less, probably, right? - had been the first he'd felt really good in days and he wanted to try to hold onto that instead of going back to skulking around his bedroom and trying to force himself to care about a mini Greys marathon.   
  
He knew it was pathetic. And needy. And everything he prided himself on  _not_  being. Just because he was gay didn't mean he was going to be some clingy co-dependent... _Rachel_  about everything. He was self-reliant and didn't need anyone else's approval. He was better than this.  
  
It had just been  _such_  a crappy week. And as much as he hated that he couldn't shrug it off like he usually did, he hated even more the idea of spending the next three hours hanging out alone - or, worse yet, trying to reassure all his friends that he was okay.  
  
Luckily for them both, he didn't have to say anything else. Puck flopped onto Kurt's bed on his back, one arm out to the side in what had become a fairly regular relaxation position for the two of them. Kurt laid his head on Puck's shoulder and kind of curled against Puck's side, bracing himself for the inevitable snark about how Puckerone didn't cuddle; instead, Puck's leg moved over enough to intertwine with Kurt's.  
  
"If you want anything I could totally go get it," Puck offered. He didn't do as many illicit substances as everyone thought, but he knew where to get almost anything a person could get high on. Sandy Ryerson wasn't his only connection, just the dumbest - the other guys actually made him pay for it. Not street value 'cause he could kick most of their asses by barely flexing, but more than Creepyfruit made him pay.  
  
"No. Thank you," Kurt whispered.  
  
Puck nodded and reached up awkwardly to snag the throw blanket and draw it across them. It didn't really cover most of them, but it was enough. Neither of them spoke for a long time.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Kurt held his phone sideways as he walked down a hallway that looked like it could double as a movie set for a film about Versailles. The text from Blaine -  _X marks the spot_  - was accompanied by a .jpg of the school map with a big red X paintshopped onto the auditorium. He wasn't sure what the surprise might be - if Blaine was anything like his friends, if the Warblers were anything like he was used to, maybe an elaborately staged number to cheer him up. He wasn't sure it would work, but since even listening to the original Katy Perry version of "Teenage Dream" could make him smile, a personal performance might do him enough good to get him through awhile longer.  
  
He started to follow the hallway around to the front doors of the auditorium, but a side door caught his eye. A piece of printer paper with a big red Sharpie X had been taped at eye level.  
  
Intrigued, Kurt pushed open the door and stepped into a dark, dusty backstage area. He heard footsteps echo and called quietly, "Blaine?" He didn't know what kind of trouble he'd be in if someone else found him. He knew he couldn't get suspended from a school he didn't actually attend, but if they could bar him from campus...  
  
"Over here," Blaine called, and Kurt followed the sound of his voice out onto the stage. Dalton's auditorium was larger and unsurprisingly more plush than McKinley's, with red velvet seats and decorative touches throughout the room. It reminded him of a smaller version of the Ohio Theater up in Cleveland, where he had seen Phantom when he was 10. The chandelier here was smaller but less likely to careen onto the stage, which Kurt did jokingly acknowledge was probably a plus.  
  
He felt more regal just standing there. More Broadway. More...theatrical.  
  
Then he noticed the Warblers sitting near the front in a neat cluster. "What's going on?" Kurt asked, glancing from Blaine to his teammates and back again.   
  
One of the Warblers piped up, "It's time to lip synch...for your  _life_!"  
  
Kurt wasn't sure whether to be confused by the content of what the guy said, or by the fact that there appeared to be someone at Dalton who was - and he meant this in the more literal sense of the word - gayer than he was.  
  
"Don't mind Charlie, he has a flare for the dramatic," Blaine said with a kind of fond smile as he saw Kurt's wide-eyed expression, then explained, "You need to audition."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, you don't think we got this good by letting everyone in, do you?" Blaine asked with a teasing smile.  
  
"I told you-"  
  
"I know," Blaine cut him off. "Here's the thing - there are scholarships to go here. Need-based you'd probably qualify for, but they go pretty early in the year so there aren't any to offer right now. Academic, but mid-year transfers aren't eligible until the next term." He looked Kurt in the eye. "And music." When Kurt didn't know how to respond, he added, "We're pretty good, and we get a lot of press and attention around here, which means we get a lot of money from alumni, boosters...and we can give it to really talented guys we want in the group. But you've gotta audition first." He jujed Kurt's McQueen scarf. Kurt was just glad Blaine didn't try to touch his hat - the cadet cap and a crapton of product were the only things holding his bangs into place over the painfully obvious injury that he'd used practically an entire bottle of foundation to try to cover.  
  
"How do you even know I'm any good?" Kurt asked. He  _was_ , but that wasn't the point. He didn't even know what to say, but he felt like he had to say something. Being called in to audition for a group that was so much more challenging than anything he'd ever been part of was...to say "surprising" would be to grossly understate things.   
  
"Your Facebook links to your YouTube. Nice dancing, by the way." Even though Blaine sounded sincere, Kurt was mortified. He stood a little straighter to cover. Blaine smoothed the collar of Kurt's sweater before descending the stairs to join his teammates, leaving Kurt alone on-stage. "What are you gonna sing for us?"  
  
"I didn't really have time to prepare-"  
  
"Doesn't matter. Just sing your go-to. Whatever's in your back pocket."  
  
If there was one thing Kurt knew, it was his voice. But in that moment, with 20 talented guys staring at him and his entire future riding on a moment for which he'd had no preparation, he couldn't think of a single song he sounded good on - let alone great. He couldn't remember the first line of Defying Gravity, and Celine was coming only in snippets of jumbled French.  
  
"I can only think of one and it's probably too Broadway for-"  
  
"Don't worry about that. We just need to hear what you sound like - we've had guys audition with everything from Eric Clapton to Cats."  
  
"And the guy who forgot everything but Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," Wes added with a grin.  
  
"But got in anyway," Blaine added as he saw that Kurt didn't look reassured. "If you can sing, you can sing anything. So what song's it gonna be?"  
  
"'As If We Never Said Goodbye," Kurt blurted out.  
  
"Take it away, Norma Desmond."  
  
Surprised but encouraged that Blaine knew the song - and at least a few others had a look of recognition as well - Kurt decided it was now or never. He moved to center stage and drew in a deep breath, waiting for accompaniment to appear out of nowhere like he was used to. It took him a minute to remember that the Warblers sang acappella. They didn't have a Brad. They didn't  _need_  a Brad.  
  
He had perfect pitch, but for all he knew he was so out of practice - the acoustics of his shower were hardly the same caliber as this space. But, he supposed, it was now or never. He'd been complaining about wanting a challenge, right?  
  
With another deep breath, he began the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3c5YxkUa0a8) quietly.  
  
 _I don't know why I'm frightened-_  
  
Bullshit.  
  
 _I know my way around here_  
  
Even bigger bullshit. While he had never been a lyrical purist like Rachel could be, caring if every lyric matched up as long as the mood was right, he almost laughed at how wrong it was. He had no idea what he was doing there. But he had more than enough years of practice at concealing self-doubt.  
  
 _The cardboard trees,  
The painted scenes,  
The sound here_  
  
As he hit the first strong note of the song, he did have to be impressed by the acoustics. Maybe he just wasn't used to hearing himself anymore outside the confines of his bedroom.   
  
 _Yes, a world to rediscover  
But I'm not in any hurry  
And I need a moment._  
  
He probably took the decrescendo a bit too far there, didn't diminuendo as much as he should have, but he charged on. After all, while Dalton was a new environment for him, a stage hardly was. He'd been performing, dreaming about performing, wanting to perform for as long as he could remember, and no one who knew him would be surprised if that was the place he felt most at home. He could do this. He could turn on stage presence and make it a real performance - it was a gift, and maybe if he was lucky it would come through enough.  
  
 _The whispered conversations  
In overcrowded hallways  
The atmosphere  
As thrilling here  
As always._  
  
He looked at Blaine, who gave him an encouraging smile and a slight roll of the yes, as if to say 'Jeez, you're so paranoid - calm down." It would be pathetic for that to be what made him feel like he was doing okay, right? He knew his voice better than that. But he had more of a smile as he sang,  
  
 _Feel the early morning madness  
Feel the magic in the making  
Why, everything's as if we never said goodbye._  
  
As he began the next verse, he realized the music wasn't just in his head. At some point, several of the Warblers had joined in on background - ooo-ing and da-da-da-ing in perfect harmony where the symphony would usually play. Blaine wasn't directing them, either - this wasn't a pity-harmonization to keep the new kid in key. It was like a spontaneous moment of vocal unity and support and, if it was possible to fall in love with two dozen guys at once, Kurt thought he just might have at that moment.  
  
 _I'm coming out of makeup  
The lights already burning  
Not long until  
The cameras will  
Start turning  
And the early morning madness  
And the magic in the making  
Yes, everything's as if we never said goodbye._  
  
While the fact that it was a song about a return (that wasn't ultimately as triumphant as the singer expected) had initially given him pause, the rush of adrenaline as he approached the bridge let him know he had made the right choice. With unbridled passion and meaning every syllable, he sang  
  
 _I don't want to be alone -  
That's all in the past  
This world's waited long enough -  
I've come home at last!_  
  
He threw his arms outwards on the word 'home!', feeling like Elphaba in the moment she flies high above the stage in Defying Gravity, singing "It's me!" The same sort of triumphant jubilation he always imagined in that moment, a sensation of being able to conquer the world but the likes of which he'd never felt until he hit that note.  
  
 _And this time will be bigger-_  
  
He swiped his arms down dramatically on "this", an almost-growl sneaking in.  
  
 _And brighter than we knew it.  
So watch me fly -  
We all know I can do it!_  
  
His voice dropped in volume as he sang, " _Could I stop my hand from shaking_?", arm outstretched towards Blaine. Their eyes met and locked, like during Teenage Dream, but this time all Kurt could see was immense pride and encouragement. He barely kept his quivering jaw in check as he sang, in barely above a sincere, moved whisper,  
  
 _Has there ever been a moment  
With so much to live for?_  
  
The look on Blaine's face told him all he needed to hear.  
  
 _The whispered conversations  
In overcrowded hallways  
So much to say -  
Not just today  
But always.  
We'll have early morning madness,  
We'll have magic in the making.  
Yes, everything's as if we never said goodbye._  
  
The Warblers slowly built the chord that led into the last line, then dropped out to hear how he finished the song. The anticipation over the high note fueled him. He didn't have to blow it. Here, he would never have to.  
  
 _Oh please, don't ever - ever_  
  
He sounded more desperate on the word than he would have liked, but no one minded.  
  
 _make me say goodbye!_  
  
Before he even cut off the G, they were cheering for him.  
  
He felt indescribable, like no word could adequately sum up the sense of invincibility that had taken over. It was like every inch of his body was on fire, exhausted and exhilarated, and he could barely catch his breath. It was like Cheerios on steroids (may Sue strike him dead for even putting those words in the same sentence).  
  
He looked down at Blaine and just asked, "Well?" Again, the look on Blaine's face said it all.


	5. Chapter 5

The change in his son was delayed, but obvious and nearly instantaneous when it finally came.  
  
Burt had to admit, he'd been worried when Kurt pulled into the garage looking like he was in complete and total shock, and when he'd said he got a scholarship he'd been skeptical. But when the call came the next day, and the letter was hand-delivered (by whom he still didn't know), and there it was in black and white and a clipped upperclass accent...and by the time Monday rolled around, they were driving over to Dalton to work on his enrollment paperwork. He expected Kurt to be excited, but he remained stone-faced, solemn, and Burt got the distinct impression that his son was trying to manage his own expectations - not get his hopes up in case they got there and there was something that ripped all this away from him. It didn't surprise him - Kurt did that a lot, he knew. It didn't occur to him just how sad it was until there they were, driving to go get Kurt set up at his dream school and Kurt looked just as cold and ambivalent as usual.  
  
He let out a low whistle as they approached. Sure, he'd seen the building in the pictures Kurt showed him, but the size of the place was insane. "Pretty impressive, kid."  
  
"Yes it is," Kurt replied distantly. "We'll go in that door over there."   
  
Burt didn't press him on it. Everything he'd been through, Kurt had the right to be suspicious he guessed, but he hated that a 16-year-old had that outlook. Should at least get a couple more years of being dumbly naive first, right? Seeing the best in people and being optimistic and all that.  
  
His faith in people had started eroding when Kurt came along.  
  
See, even if he didn't follow Kurt around school or anything, he knew how the other kids looked at him. He'd first noticed people staring at his kid everywhere they went when Kurt was four. In the beginning it pissed him off so much he wanted to beat the crap out of anyone who so much as glanced at them - let alone gave his family that patronizing " _Oh_ " look. Kurt's mom had waved him off, explained to him that people weren't as cruel as they had been when they were growing up, and that maybe by the time Kurt was an adult the world would be even better, but in the meantime all they could do was teach Kurt to be strong and protect him the best they could. She always did know how to calm him down with stuff like that.  
  
But here...no one looked at his son like that. They looked at him like - well, like people would look at Finn. Scoping him out, seeing who the new guy was, then going back to their conversations, their frisbee games, their studying. No one stared at Kurt, no one laughed at him or pointed.  
  
He could've hugged every single one of those kids.  
  
A guy with dark slicked-down hair approached, and the change in Kurt's demeanor was slight but evident. "Hey," the new guy smiled. "You made it."  
  
"I don't know how to even-"  
  
"You don't have to," he replied. "I feel kind of responsible, telling you to fight back and all. Just pay it forward and get another bullied gay kid in here," he added.  
  
A smile crossed Kurt's lips, and it occurred to Burt that he honestly wasn't sure the last time he'd seen his kid smile. Actually smile. That was a bad sign, right? "We'll see about that," Kurt replied. "Blaine, this is my father, Burt Hummel. Dad, this is Blaine."  
  
Blaine held out his hand and Burt shook it, sizing up the new kid. "How do you two know each other?"  
  
"He's the lead Warbler, Dad - and he set up my audition," Kurt replied.  
  
Burt nodded solemnly. "Thank you," he said sincerely. He didn't like that some teenager was able to protect his son when he couldn't, but he was willing to forgo pride for something this important.   
  
"Don't worry, I'll look out for him," Blaine replied. He turned to Kurt and added, "I wanted to make sure you got to the office okay. We probably won't have any classes together, unless our schools swap a few sophomore and junior courses, but I have a couple Warblers getting ready to show you around. And anything you need...well, I'm pretty easy to find." Kurt grinned, though with a bit of an eye roll like he thought Blaine was just a little bit lame but mostly awesome.   
  
His son looked  _happy_. Normal and happy and relaxed.  
  
As he followed the boys through the main door, Burt tried to remember the last time he'd seen Kurt look like that - like he wasn't worried about everything. Like he wasn't trying to close himself off from the people around him. Definitely before middle school started, he knew that, because that was when Kurt shut out everyone including him. How they were now was a huge improvement compared to the tween years. So that meant probably...there were a few moments here and there after Katie had died, when it was just the two of them and things could stop feeling sad for a few minutes, but otherwise...had Kurt seriously not looked this carefree since he was six, before his mom got sick? That couldn't be true, could it?  
  
Screw all that organic crap Kurt ate - with that kind of stress, his kid would still have a heart attack before he hit 20.  
  
Maybe now that would change. He certainly hoped so.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Kurt was waiting excitedly on Puck's front step when he got home. From the look on his face, Puck had a feeling he was going to be dragged to some self-important diva's sixth consecutive farewell tour. He'd put up with it - maybe, for part of the concert at least - if Kurt looked like that instead of like he was gonna either deck someone or burst into tears.  
  
Okay, probably not. But he'd get Rachel to go with Kurt instead and tell them to have a good time and mean it. And maybe even not roll his eyes.  
  
"Sup?" Puck asked.  
  
"We need to talk. I have news," Kurt replied. He'd never thought it would be possible for Kurt to sound gayer than he did, but it turned out that happy Kurt went from sounding like an uptight priss to sounding like he should be hosting a red carpet interview or something. The change in tone, however, did nothing to make the four words sound any better. Those were the bane of any...relationship. There, he said it. They never meant something good was coming. But seeing no way of getting out of it - absent distracting Kurt with plenty of sex - he led Kurt into the house and upstairs.  
  
Maybe distracting Kurt with sex would be a good plan anyway, right?  
  
He sat on the bed and Kurt took what had become his usual position perched on the edge of the desk chair. Kurt always started out there like he was trying to prove he was at Puck's for more than just fucking, but it never lasted more than ten minutes.  
“Sup?” Puck asked finally when even his best 'get over here and take off your pants' look went unnoticed.  
  
“I’m going to Dalton,” Kurt blurted out. He’d planned on giving a bigger speech, but he couldn’t help it – it was too big of news and he was too excited.  
  
Puck looked at him, confused. “Huh?”  
  
“Blaine – their choir’s lead – set it all up. I start on Monday.” Kurt grinned, hands laced over his crossed knees, looking very pleased with himself. He couldn’t figure out why Puck didn’t look equally pleased for him.   
  
“Dude, Sectionals are in two weeks and you’re defecting over to-“  
  
Kurt blinked. Sectionals? That was what Puck was worried about right now? “It’s not a defection. I’m only competing with them in Sectionals because the Warblers are my ticket over there, otherwise I would gladly hold off a few weeks.” It was strange – being part of the Warblers was more important to him than winning with them. Nationals in New York aside. Maybe what Rachel had always said (and he had always mocked her for) was more right than he’d realized: being  _part_  of something special was what made you special, not whether you won with them. Unlike at McKinley where winning was the only thing he had to look forward to in order to try and improve his social standing – to the extent there was even hope for that anymore – at Dalton it didn’t matter if the choir won or came in dead last. They were that awesome.  
  
It hadn't occurred to him until that moment that there was a chance he could beat his friends and crush their dreams of New York. Or, worse, they could win and crush his. He shoved the thoughts back; there would be time for that later. Right now, he was taking an uncharacteristic moment to savour being happy - blissfully, naively happy.  
  
Puck snorted, staring at the wall and shaking his head like he couldn’t believe this shit. “So you’re leaving.”  
  
“Why can’t you be happy for me?” Kurt asked, annoyed. “I’m really excited for this and you’re acting like I’m doing it to hurt you or- or screw you over or something.”  
  
“Whatever,” Puck replied sullenly.  
  
It occurred to Kurt suddenly that maybe Puck felt like this was going to change things, or like he was using this exodus as an excuse to break up or something. Blaine’s words from earlier, what he'd said about paying it forward came back to him, and Kurt urged suddenly, “Come with me.” He had to roll his eyes at how much he sounded like Elphaba, same intonation and all, but that wasn’t the point. They could be a golden couple at Dalton together, be everything Kurt had ever envisioned in having a boyfriend - someone he could walk down the halls with without feeling like they were going to get harassed, someone he could take to prom without worrying about Figgins shutting down the entire thing in the name of Jesus. They could relax around each other a little, be a little more like they were in private instead of their respective walled-off personaes that they only kept up because of how other people treated them at McKinley anyway. They could be amazing together.  
  
Puck finally looked at him, which Kurt considered a victory, even if it was looking at him like he was crazy. “What?”  
  
“Come with me. Come to Dalton. They- It’s horrifyingly expensive, but it doesn’t have to be. They have vocal music scholarships, Puck, and you’re more than good enough to get one. Your voice would sound great with Blaine’s. I know that preppy isn’t your style and you’d probably want to throw half the school in a dumpster somewhere, but it’s…it’s like a magical fantasyland. A world where slushies are something to drink and not a weapon.”  
  
Puck regarded him carefully. He looked so earnest, so genuinely happy and convinced this was going to work. “How’s their football?” he asked.  
  
Kurt looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “What do you mean?”  
  
“You keep talking about how the glee club’s cool over there, like rock stars, bigger than football at McKinley. So their football team sucks, right?”  
  
“I…don’t actually know if they have one,” Kurt replied. Of all the criteria he had in picking a school, that would never be one of them. In fact, the absence of a football team was almost a plus.  
  
“But we’re good now.”  
  
“So?” Kurt's face fell.  
  
“So I’m not you. Your dad’s probably been saving up for you to leave the state since you were five or something. You’ve got enough for that big car and the designer crap you wear – my mom can’t do that. I dunno if I’m gonna leave Lima, but if I do want to escape, go somewhere else? It’s gonna be on a football scholarship. Now that we’re good, I’m not leaving that for some lame prepschool where they want me to be all kumbaya with everyone.”  
  
“Okay,” Kurt said slowly, trying to figure out why Puck sounded pissed at him for even suggesting it. While obviously being able to bring his hot and very talented boyfriend with him to Dalton would be nice, it wasn’t a dealbreaker. “It’s not like Dalton’s a boarding school or anything – it’s a little more than half an hour further from my house than McKinley. I get out later, but by the time you’re done with practice I’d still be home, especially since the Warblers get a couple different times during the day to meet so there isn’t too much afterschool practice time. Face it, we almost never see each other before 5 when you’re done with football anyway, and it’s not as though we have any classes together except glee club. You probably won’t even notice I’m gone.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Puck replied.  
  
“What?" Kurt asked. "You can't live without seeing me in the hallway twice a day? Nodding to me across the lunchroom while I go sit with Mercedes and you go sit with guys from football?"  
  
“It’s bullshit. You say now, oh, yeah, nothing’s gonna change, but you’re gonna get over there and never speak to any of us public school Lima Losers again.”  
  
"It won't be like that," Kurt stated, voice starting to get a little edgier.  
  
"So you're going," Puck said with a forced evenness.  
  
"Of course I am," Kurt replied. What did Puck mean, he was going - of course he was going. He had been wishing desperately for any ticket out of McKinley, and now he had a scholarship to the most perfect school he could have imagined. Even if he hadn't been as miserable as he had in the previous month, he would have been going. "It's an incredible school."  
  
"You're punking out."  
  
"Punking- are you out of your mind? Do you  _know_  how hard I've been working to try to make things okay at school? Things may be getting better for you there, but they've gotten exponentially worse for me. They all think I'm some creepy guy who molests straight boys now, like I can't keep my hands off any guy. I'm absolutely miserable there, and it's not going to get better. I thought it would, but it won't." He stated it matter-of-factly, but there was no mistaking the obvious frustration in his voice at having to explain it in the first place. "Dalton is a place I can be safe and-...and valuable to them. And able to actually be  _me_. I know what people say about me - even the ones who like me. I'm an ice queen, I'm too uptight for my own good. I know that. Even just during the few times I've been over there, I don't have to be like that."  
  
He didn't know why he was laying all of that out on the table, it wasn't anything he'd ever even tried to speak aloud before - putting words to his isolation. It felt strange and terrifying and slightly liberating, the prospect of not feeling like he was thirty feet away from everyone around him emotionally-speaking.   
  
"They touched me," he blurted out, and Puck's head jerked towards him. "Blaine fixed my collar, the guys hugged me to welcome me in, and it was so...From the time I was  _five_ , no guy has been willing to so much as graze my arm without acting like he needs a tetanus shot. I've had people literally refuse to sit at my table in class - once a group of basketball jocks refused to sit in my chair the period after I sat in it because they thought I would have semen leaking out of my ass. Now they're wearing gloves from biology class so they don't come in contact with me because apparently being gay is that contagious. But at Dalton it was like I was a normal person. Like I was a person at all instead of some disease-riddled lab monkey. Don't you think it's better for me to somewhere I'm safe and don't have to worry about all that so I can be happy? And a better person and friend and boyfriend?"  
  
Puck rolled his eyes and snorted at the use of the word 'boyfriend.' Kurt had known it was a risk to use it, but he thought maybe it would break through.   
  
If his own walls were going down, Puck was closing himself off practically by the second, Kurt could see, and he didn't know how to get him back - or at least how to get behind the walls with him. If Puck would just listen to him for a minute instead of being all stubborn and randomly territorial for absolutely no reason...  
  
It occurred to him that Puck almost never listened to Rachel, but sometimes did when she called him Noah. It was like a signal that they weren't two people who hated each other and kind of tortured each other at school, maybe, that they had something more than that. Maybe that could snap him out of it, force him to listen instead of trying to shove Kurt to arms length.  
  
"I'm not going away for good, Noah, you'll still see me just as--"  
  
It didn't have the desired effect. Puck recoiled like Kurt had slapped him, jaw set, eyes smoldering. "Get out," he practically growled.  
  
"What's your problem?"  
  
"Go. Run away to your new school and your new  _freaking_  life. Just get the fuck out."  
  
"But Puck-" Kurt tried, confused and frustrated. What had he done? They barely saw each other during the day anyway, except during glee, and of all the people who would be pissed at him for jumping ship before Sectionals Puck should have been the last one.  
  
Puck wouldn't even look at him. He looked  _past_  him, like he didn't even exist, in a hard stare before flopping back onto his bed and staring at the ceiling. "Santana'll be here in five and I know you don't want to watch that," he stated coldly.   
  
Kurt drew in a sharp, angry breath, eyes narrowing, then turned and fled downstairs. He made it out to his car before tears of frustration began to fall.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Okay, guys - let's get started," Mr. Schue said cheerfully as he entered. "Now, with Sectionals around the corner-"  
  
Kurt's hand shot up. "Mr. Schue? If I may?" When Mr. Schue gestured that the floor was his - or at least that he couldn't stop Kurt from taking the floor, Kurt stood and stepped confidently to the front of the room. "It is my duty to inform you that this Friday will be my last day as a member of New Directions."  
  
Among the hubub, Mercedes, " _What_?" was the easiest to pick out.  
  
"After a rash of incidents, I have been accepted at Dalton Academy. I start on Monday."  
  
"Wait. Dalton as in...one of our competitors?" Mr. Schue asked.  
  
Then the room really went crazy. "How can you do this to us?" Tina demanded.  
  
"You're leaving us and joining the competition?" Mike asked, eyebrows knitting together.  
  
"Not cool, yo," Artie added sullenly.  
  
"I assure you it was not intentional. Don't worry - I won't be telling them anything we've been working on. I'm not Jesse," he added with a look at Rachel. She looked like she was in shock, her mouth forming a big O while her brow furrowed under the bangs he'd always maintained were too heavy for her face. A year ago it would have been a cause for mockery. Now...well, he halfway didn't dislike her. "I want to make it clear that, while McKinley has never been a good place for me, New Directions has by and large been the one place that helped make it manageable. I harbour no ill-will to any of you...well, almost any of you," he added with a sideways glance at Finn and a judgmental eyebrow in Santana's direction, "and I genuinely do wish you the best at Sectionals, even if it does mean my own hopes of a New York miracle are dashed. But mostly I want to stress that I don't want my going to another school to mean we never see each other. My basement is still open for movie nights, I anticipate even bigger soirees for Oscar night and the Tonys, any trips to the mall-"  
  
"How long have you know about this?" Rachel asked.  
  
"It was made formal Monday," Kurt said; this was Wednesday.  
  
"And you didn't tell anyone?" Mercedes demanded, with the not-so-subtle subtext of 'Because you sure as hell didn't tell me!'  
  
Until that point, Kurt had been doing his best to look anywhere but at Puck. Now he glanced over; Puck was slouching, legs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, with his best glower in the opposite direction of Kurt. The guy wouldn't speak to him. Kurt had tried texting him on Tuesday to no avail, when he stopped by Puck's locker Puck avoided him...except for the part where he pinned Santana to the science room door to make out with her when he knew Kurt would see.  
  
"No," Kurt replied quietly. "No one."   
  
No one really felt like singing after that. If he felt diseased before, now he felt downright radioactive with the way no one would even look at him, let alone go near him. He tried to help by pointing out ways to easily slide in a replacement so no one would suffer his absence, even though it tore at his heart to think of how expendable he was; he was living in a Beyonce song.  _I can have another you by tomorrow, so don't you ever for a second get to thinking you're irreplaceable._  
  
As they left practice, he grabbed his bag and left quickly. "You can't do this to us," Rachel stated, racing after him as he exited the choir room.  
  
"Why not?" Kurt asked. He was in full-on ice bitch mode now, frustrated by the lack of support from even the people who were meant to be his friends and bitter that the one thing that had made him happy - truly, blissfully happy - in more than a decade couldn't even be free from the stains of resentment and jealousy. "You'll miss my voice during all the solos? Oh, that's right - I still don't have one."  
  
"S- so this is about solos? The spotlight? Being a star? I can appreciate that as much as anybody, Kurt, but you can't-"  
  
"It's not about solos," he told her, looking her in the eye. "While I find it ironic that you - and everyone else - talks about how you need me to be exactly who I am for Sectionals, that you can't win without me because of the things I can do that no one else can, then half my lines are doubled with Santana anyway, I'm not you. There are things more important to me than being the center of attention." He turned and kept walking, and she kept doggedly trying to keep up with him.  
  
"Then it's about the bullying, isn't it? The homophobes and the opportunists who seized the moment to attack you, tie things to your locker?"  
  
"Yes," he replied bluntly.  
  
"But Kurt, you don't have to leave because of that. I mean they used to do the same thing to me, but now it's only one slushie a week where it used to be four a day, you could-"  
  
"No," he stated. "I couldn't. It's never going to get better for me here, Rachel, and of all the people in this school who know why I would've thought it would be you."  
  
"At least wait until after Sectionals. It's only three weeks, you could transfer then-"  
  
"I'm on a scholarship and it begins on Monday. It's contingent on me competing with their team in Sectionals. And if I stay here there's a better than even chance someone decides to kill me before the competition anyway," he added flippantly, but it was a valid fear some days. Well, maybe maiming was more likely than death, but the point stood.  
  
"I'll break up with Finn," she declared.  _That_  got his attention. He stopped and slowly turned to face her. "I know he's been awful to you and hasn't gotten better, and I know he's the hardest one to deal with because you're practically family now, and people here still listen to him. I'll break up with him if it'll make you stay."  
  
He stared at her, unsure whether that was the most or least selfish thing she'd ever said. On one hand, she was willing to trade her boyfriend - the guy she'd had a crush on for longer than he had - to get him to stay. On the other, she wanted him to stay only because she recognized his talent and potential and knew that there was a chance her ability to go to Nationals would be ruined if he jumped ship.  
  
"That's a very generous offer, but I'm not taking it," he replied quietly and walked off down the hall.  
  
* * * * *  
  
On Friday afternoon, as he stood in the main hallway with a box in his arms and a garment bag draped overtop, he started to wonder for the first time if all of this had been a mistake.  
  
He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, really. Being called into the auditorium or the choir room to find his teammates with some number about how they would miss him. Tina and Mercedes running around trying to make as many plans with him as they could before he left so they could hold him to it if he ever decided to blow them off in favour of cute boys in uniforms. Dinner plans with all twelve of them (or at least most of them) hanging out at Breadstix and commandeering the big table for hours, laughing and talking and being sentimental about his time in New Directions. Something.  
  
He didn't know why. Maybe he wanted to feel like he'd be more missed than Matt Rutherford, or like they weren't treating his transfer like Rachel's diva-licious queen-out when she quit over the solo from West Side Story.  
  
No one was speaking to him, let alone planning moving musical tributes on stools. Well, not quite no one - Sam and Quinn at least didn't think he was a horrible traitor. And Brittany just seemed confused, but Santana had quickly 'educated' her about it, so now she kept looking at him and hissing like a cat. He wasn't entirely sure why.  
  
He stood there, wanting someone to notice he was about to leave, but everyone was getting ready to start their own weekends. Karofsky walked by and flipped the box out of his arms, sending its contents scattering across the floor. "One to remember us by, Hummel," he smirked before sauntering off.  
  
"Perfect," Kurt muttered as he shook his head and knelt down to gather his belongings. At least it was a good reminder of exactly what he was leaving behind, why he was glad to be getting the hell out of there. This wouldn't happen at Dalton. A guy with a box would get offers of help, not this crap.  _They_  were civilized. They-  
  
He froze as he saw a familiar pair of black hiking boots in front of his face. He looked up slowly to see Puck staring down at him. "Puck," he whispered, eyes pleading - not that Puck would help him pick up his crap, he could handle that - he was used to it, but that Puck would...see him. Speak to him. Acknowledge him.  _Something._  
  
Puck's eyes just narrowed, his shoulders squared, and he strode down the hall.  
  
Kurt tried not to feel like something deep inside him snapped, but suddenly it was like everything in him  _ached_. His chest, his stomach, his eyes- He hastily threw the rest of his belongings into the carton and stood, clutching it tightly to himself. As everyone went on with their lives and he stood, watching, he felt like Maria when she leaves the grand party to run away back to the abbey because she loves Captain Von Trapp too much. Alone and apart from a sea of people enjoying themselves as she escaped.  
  
He drew in a deep breath and used his arm to shove open the front door, stepping out into the bright afternoon sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But as any good Sound of Music fan knows, that's just the end of Act I - you just pop in the second VHS tape (or DVD? Does the DVD set still have 2 disks like that?) and it turns out okay, I swear!
> 
> ...and let the death threats being...


End file.
